


Death is the Least of our Worries.

by Alexander_Slamilton



Series: Ou La Mort [1]
Category: 19th Century CE RPF, American Revolution RPF, Hamilton - Miranda, Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: Alternate Universe - Reincarnation, Alternate Universe - Soulmates, Angst, Fluff, M/M, Multi, Polyamory (maybe), Polyamroy, Revolution, alternate universe - les mis, barricade fun, gratuitous use of French, wait
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-12
Updated: 2017-01-25
Packaged: 2018-09-08 03:23:34
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 11
Words: 30,002
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8828503
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Alexander_Slamilton/pseuds/Alexander_Slamilton
Summary: Hamilton, Lafayette, and Laurens all died in 1804 when Hamilton was shot by Burr, because, in this world you die when your soulmate does. They get reincarnated in 1808, in France with all the memories of their past lives. Just in time for the 1832 June Rebellion, and to meet the Les Amis d'L ABC.





	1. Le Musain.

 

The café was down a winding side street, deep in the heart of Paris, somewhere forgotten by the normal trappings of society. Lafayette had no real reason to be wandering the streets of the city so late, it was almost eleven o’clock; the moon hung low in the sky, casting a silver glow on the wet pavements. It was cold and Lafayette could see his breath curling through the air in front of him, and the warm yellow lights of the cafê were so inviting. He peaked in through the windows; it was mostly empty, apart from a hunched figure leaning against the bar. He could almost feel the fire that was roaring in the grate, warm and dry; somewhere to escape from home. 

 

His parents had tried to keep their voices down, they had kept the doors closed this time, but it hadn't helped and Lafayette had been able to hear every word. He didn’t feel like going home just yet, so why not have a drink, he was nearly twenty five; he could drink on his own. The bar, and what was behind it called out to him; so he pushed the door open. The warmth hit him like a brick wall, a barricade of heat that he pushed through. 

 

“If you’re here for the meeting you’re too late, they left about ten minutes ago,” the man at the bar said, grumbling and chocking down a drink of clear liquid.

 

“Meeting? What meeting?” Lafayette asked, interest piqued. 

 

“Ah, nothing then, run whilst you still can; besides you’re far too young for any of that,” the man mused, waving a finger at the girl behind the bar. “How old are you, kid? Eighteen? Nineteen? Go home, Paris isn’t safe at this time of night.” 

 

“I’m twenty three, Monsieur. Not a child,” Lafayette sniffed, taking a seat at the bar, beside the man. 

 

“Doesn’t matter. Go home, turn around and walk out of that door.”

 

“I don’t much feel like going home,” Lafayette said, into the drink the waitress put in front of him. 

 

“Argued with mother and father did you?” The man raised an eyebrow. 

 

“In a way,” Lafayette mumbled, “more so they argued about me.”

 

“I see,” the man grunted, “well, go home anyway. And, forget about this place.”

 

“Finish up, the both of you. We’re closing for the night,” a formidable looking woman said, poking her head round one of the doors, that lead out to the back. 

 

“You don’t have any rooms, do you? I can pay,” Lafayette asked her, looking up from his drink.

 

“No, we’ve no rooms here, son.” The woman said, shooing Lafayette and the man out of the bar. 

 

“Where’s home?” The man grunted. 

 

“The Sixteenth,” Lafayette sighed, his shoulders drooping. “I suppose I should start walking.”

 

“No way am I letting you wander for an hour, alone at this time, I’ll walk with you,” the man said, starting off in the direction of the 16th Arrondissement. 

 

Lafayette sensed there was not getting rid of this man; so he followed him through the dark streets. They walked side by side for quite some time with neither saying a word, before the man turned to Lafayette, looking him in the eye.

 

“Why do you not want to go home?” 

 

“My parents, they argue about me. My father wants to send me to a ‘doctor’; my mother fears that if I go to one, I’ll never come home,” Lafayette shrugged, though he could feel his stomach twist. 

 

“And why’s that?” The man’s eyes were sad, he looked at Lafayette pityingly.

 

“If I told you, you’d think me mad too.”

 

“Trust me, you’re about the sanest person I’ve spoken to today,” the man let out a humourless laugh. 

 

“I will not seem so if I tell you, please,” Lafayette looked at him, pleading silently for the man to drop it.

 

“What’s your name, kid?” The man seemed to drop the subject, he gestured to Lafayette, “since I’m walking you home, you may as well tell me that.”

 

“Lafayette,” he couldn't stop himself, the name slipped out, he’d meant to say ‘Gilbert’ or something as equally harmless and anonymous.

 

The man stopped walking, he raised an eyebrow, “Lafayette?” 

 

“I said you’d think me mad,” Lafayette looked down and kicked at a loose stone with his boot.

 

“Why would I think that?” the man said. “You’re still the sanest person I’ve spoken to, today. My name’s Grantaire.”

 

“Nice to meet you,” Lafayette muttered. “Most people call me Gilbert though.”

 

“So, Lafayette, your parents name you after him or something?” Grantaire asked, obviously choosing to ignore Lafayette’s hastily scrambled statement.

 

“No. I _am_ him,” Lafayette decided he may as well make the leap and tell Grantaire, since he clearly wasn't dropping the subject. 

 

“You _are_ Lafayette? You mean, you fought in the American war of Independence. Which was in 1776, when you were born in,” Grantaire looked up for a second, thinking deeply, “1808, being twenty three. Oh and him being dead since 1804.” 

 

“I- I have these dreams, these memories, of places I’ve never been to. And-“ Lafayette broke off, closing his eyes and scrubbing a hand over them. 

 

“And?” Grantaire looked at him.

 

“Battles I never fought in,” Lafayette grimaced, thinking about the death and the blood. “I got shot, in the leg and I wrote to to my wife telling her everything was fine. I can recite poems I’ve never learned, and I know my way around George Washington’s house, Mount Vernon.” 

 

“Well.” Grantaire said. 

 

“Now you know,” Lafayette muttered, “go on, run for the hills; tell everyone I’m a freak.”

 

“Nah, I stand by my earlier statement.” Grantaire smiled, inclining his head, “well, here’s the 16th, time for you to go home and go to bed.”

 

“Thank you for walking me home, Grantaire,” Lafayette said as he turned in the direction of his home, “and, thank you for believing me.” 

 

“Call me R, see you around, Lafayette,” Grantaire nodded and turned back the way they had come. 

 

So Lafayette walked the next ten minutes on his own, though now he was around familiar sights and sounds. He didn't exactly feel alone, he had his thoughts, and memories of an entire forty seven years to sift through. He’d been having the dreams and weird flashbacks since he was little, most often he’d wake up in bed, sweat soaked and terrified. His life had been littered by so much violence and hatred, but he had not experienced any of it. He’d realised who he was when he’d been eleven, sitting in lessons with his governess; learning about America. Lafayette, he’d heard the name and something in him had screamed, _me._

 

He lived, this time around, in a spacious house, two blocks away from the banks of the Sien. His house had so many stairs, he was out of breath before he reached his room, he sent out a silent prayer hoping that the creaking floorboards wouldn't wake his parents. He lit a candle and sat on the edge of the bed, trying in vain to remember when he last slept the whole night, he couldn't remember, the last time he’d slept free of the visions plaguing him. The clock on the table read 3 o’clock, he had a class at eight the next day; so he sank into the pillow. 

 

***

 

_He was standing in a field, waist high grass sang and danced in the light breeze that fluttered across it. Birds swooped low across the trees, casting black shadows against the bright blue of the sky. A butterfly dipped and swirled across his vision, white paper thing wings fluttering so fast he couldn't keep track of them. The air was hot and close, sticking to him; making his clothes damp with sweat, he was wearing a heavy, blue wool coat and breeches he’d only ever seen on his grandfather and yet he knew they were his own. The sun hung low and full in the sky, brushing against the tops of the trees; everything was filtered gold. He brushed his hand along the tops of the grasses, feeling them scratch slightly against his palm. A voice, full of laughter rang up behind him, and he felt hands running down his shoulders, tangling in the back of his head; pulling him round to meet their owner’s eyes._

 

_“Lafayette, mon amour. Let me kiss you,” the man said, trailing a delicate hand over the side of his face, stroking gently over his cheekbones._

 

_“Yes, a thousand times yes,” he whispered, leaning in and-_

 

_***_

 

_Chaos. Pure, terrifying chaos, grape shot and bullets whizzed past his head. Lafayette wasn't afraid though, he could feel himself coming alive in the terror and heat of battle. His horse moved like the wind up and down the lines of soldiers, urging the men to keep their lines, bringing them morale and hope. He kept his eyes on the small group of men, sitting atop horses, on the top of the hill. He didn't know why, but his eyes only flicked in between two of them. Then, a piercing ice cold pain in his leg and-_

 

_***_

 

Light streamed in through his window, cold, bright and undeniably there; he could feel tiredness itch at his eyes. He hadn't slept enough and the fact that his face hurt was just the tip of the ice berg of awfulness he knew the day would descend into. He could hear the birds outside as they hailed in the new dawn, but they were different to the ones in his dream. These birds were song birds, small so he wouldn't have been able to see them from so far away. Lafayette tried his hardest to remember the name and face of the man in his dream. He thought it was the same face he’d seen a little clearer in a dream he’d had two weeks ago, but the shoulders were different. 

 

“Gilbert! Don’t forget your classes,” his mother called up the stairs; he heard the front door slam as his father went to work. 

 

“Yes, I know, I know,” Lafayette moaned, rolling out of bed face first and landing flat on the wood floor. 

 

It was a half hour cycle to the building his classes were in, the Faculty of Arts was on Rue Saint-Jaque; it was cold and Lafayette could feel his hands going numb as he clutched the handle bars. The wide tree lined streets were only just starting to get crowded with people going to work, the fish sellers and flower girls milling around trying to sell their wares to the early morning commuters. Lafayette still had time to get his coffee before his class, so he pulled over at one of the cafés that lined the streets. He cradled the steaming cup in his hands as he watched the world go by from his chair on the pavement. The sun was rising higher in the sky, the shadows of the chairs and trees elongating, stretching in to the road. Lafayette picked up his bicycle, left the empty cup on the table, and started to make his way to his class again. 

 

The Faculty of Arts was heaving with students, bodies streaming in through the wide blue front doors, like salmon up a river. There were shouts, and cries, someone was having fight. Someone with blond hair was standing on a table, waving his fists at a very familiar looking brown haired man. 

 

“R?” Lafayette asked.

 

“Lafayette! So good to see you, again, please tell my friend Enjolras to get down off that table so I can introduce you to him,” Grantaire said. 

 

“Grantaire, there is no way I am getting down off this table until you tell me that I’m right! The people will rise and-“ the blond man continued to rant, and Lafayette was mesmerised. He looked like a statue, so perfect as to be carved out of marble and animated. 

 

“Get off the table, Julien.” Another voice came out of the tangle of students. This voice, however, was familiar but Grantaire hadn't spoken. 

 

_“Lafayette, mon amour, let me kiss you.”_

 

_“Yes a thousand times yes.”_

 

“Alexander?” 


	2. Le Petit Lion

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Meet Alexander and Enjolras, two boys, young and scrappy, with the light of rebellion ablaze in their eyes.

Alexander kicked a rock down the street, he and Enjolras shared a small flat in one of the less desirable areas of Paris; it was the kind of place where there were no street lights and unsavoury characters haunted the corners. It was also the kind of place where the pavement hadn't been replaced in years, making it loose and unsafe, but also giving many rocks that were perfect for kicking when One was in a mood. Alexander was no stranger to such moods. He longed to find his friends, but he had the sneaking suspicion that they were still six feet under in America. He had toyed with the idea of going to America, he had even gone so far as to go to the docks at Calais, but a tug of emotion, a tie to France had stopped him; had made him watch as the white sails vanished into the distance. So, he’d stayed; he’d ridden the whole way back to Paris. Back to his second degree in Law; at least this time he wouldn't have to work quite so hard, the knowledge had stayed with him and he took to French law like, well, a lawyer. 

 

He had met Enjolras when they were both eleven, their families were close friends and the two boys had an even closer friendship. In this life time, he’d born in to an upper class family; it was strange to have a childhood not burdened with death and hardship. He and Enjolras had dreamed of running away, sitting together under the stars outside Alexander’s familial home, just outside of Bordeaux. The son of a Duke, Alexander had rebelled against his upbringing, smiling a little to himself when he thought that he’d turned out just like John, and run away at the age of fifteen to Paris to become a lawyer, with Enjolras. 

 

Though even now, even when he should be happy, his past haunted him. He had dreams, dreams of his friends, his lovers; he just didn't know how to find them. He knew who he was, Alexander Hamilton, the name had stayed with him and he’d looked it up the first time he’d been allowed into the public library in town. He knew he’d had two lovers, all of them soulmates, and by looking through dusty volumes on the shelves; he’d learned their names, Gilbert du Motier Marquis de Lafayette, and John Laurens, though there were no promises they still went by those names, that they remembered him, or that they had been reincarnated along with him. But, each night, their kisses haunted his dreams; their phantom touches lingered on his skin. 

 

His feet moved away from the flat, carrying him to the Musain, in to the 6th Arrondissement. Paris at this time of year felt like an old friend that was dying, the streets were empty by five in the evening; and there were no leaves on the trees. It was tough when your flat had leaks in the ceiling and damp lining the walls, still Alexander thought, it could have been worse, he could be stuck in the stuffy house in Bordeaux. The Musain was exactly the type of place his parents would have hated to see him in, this was exactly why he and Enjolras had chosen it to hold their meetings, that and it had a back room and willing staff. It started to rain again, coming down in impenetrable sheets of mist like water, the kind of rain that you hardly notice until you’re soaked through to the bone. He tucked an errant strand of hair behind his ears, trying in vain to keep it out of his face, as it hung down in damp curtains obscuring his view; he longed for the days when queues and ponytails came back in to men’s fashion. Water started to drip down his back, wetting the shirt he had on under his waist coat and jacket, making him shiver. 

 

The candles and oil lamps were lit inside the café, the orange glow they had cast a reflection on the damp pavements. The fire was lit in the grate and he could see the back of Grantaire, the cynic was propping up the bar again, judging by the empty glasses and bottles that surrounded him. Enjolras was standing on a table in the corner, shouting and gesticulating wildly as he was prone to do. It was in moments like these when Alexander was struck by his friend’s beauty. His blond curls framed a delicate face, high cheekbones and blue eyes, pink plump lips pouted in a way that made him look feminine. He looked like a porcelain doll, but he burned with a fire that could melt any metal. He was wonderful yet terrible. And when he started to talk his song was more stirring than a siren’s. Enjolras was a walking contradiction, beautiful and yet horrifying, hard and soft at the same time, cold and yet heat radiated out of him like a fire. 

 

“Get off the table, Enjolras,” Grantaire grunted, though Alexander could hear him from the doorway “Alex’s here.” 

 

“Where?” He could see Enjolras turn his head from side to side, before his eyes lit up as they caught Alex’s. “You took your time, Alex,” Enjolras muttered into Alexander’s ear. 

 

“I had to think. I needed some time,” Alex smiled, breathing in Enjolras’s scent; leaning in as they hugged. 

 

“You having dreams again?” Enjolras’s eyes turned troubled, storm clouds covering the blue. 

 

“No.” Enjolras raised an eyebrow, making Alex backtrack, “yes. But they aren’t of the war.” 

 

“Oh?” 

 

“Yeah, these ones are nice, peaceful and happy,” Alex fought not to blush as he thought of the dream in the cornfield. 

 

“Well, we’ve more important things to think about today. We need to start thinking about the rallies this year and where we’re going to get some members from.”

 

“Aye, I’ve thought of that,” Alexander said, “in to the back?”

 

“You go, I’ll get ‘Ferre and Courf. They’ll need pulling out of the loos,” Enjolras winked. 

 

“Sure.”

 

The meeting went well enough, everyone left emblazoned with spirit and hope, everyone apart from Grantaire. The cynic had been on top form today, arguing against every single point Alexander and Enjolras had put forward. Taking their arguments apart one by one, ripping them at the seams. Alexander loved it, having some to argue against, but it frustrated Enjolras, who had only ever had support from his friends. 

 

They left together, Alexander dragging Enjolras out of the café and away from Grantaire. Enjolras raved and ranted all the way, never letting Alexander get a word in edgeways. He could feel Enjolras’s heat emanating through their thin coats and shirts, Enj was the warmest person, he always radiated heat. He could felt an arm sneak round his shoulders, drawing him in. The moon was full and though there were no streetlights, Alexander could see pretty clearly. Enjolras’s hair looked white in the moonlight; his skin so pale it was almost translucent. There was a pink flush rising on his cheekbones, from being out in the cold and as he breathed Alexander could see his breath, white mist coiling and twisting in to the sky. Alex tilted his head up, looking at the sky.

 

“Why don’t Achilles and Patroclus have a constellation?” Enjolras asked, following Alexander’s eyes. 

 

“Because, they’re together in the afterlife, where they belong,” Alexander smiled, gesturing to the ground. 

 

“Will we be together in the afterlife?” Enjolras asked, voice so timid, he may have been a child.

 

“If you permit it,” Alex looked at Enjolras, who grinned.

 

“Race you home!” He shouted, taking off down the street, laughing, his head tilted back. 

 

Alexander followed, the wind taking up his coat, letting the cold air seep in, chilling him to the bone even as he warmed up from the exertion. The damp pavements offered little grip, so he slipped and slid all over the place, trying to catch Enjolras. Suddenly, without realising it, he was laughing; euphoria was filling him up, making it so he barely felt the cold. He was almost caught up with Enjolras now, close enough to touch him, to slide his hand around his shoulders and pull him to stop. Their feet echoed in the empty streets, lined with houses of white stone, that reflected the moon and lit their way. He could still see his breath, though now it billowed out behind him, a trail that disappeared as quickly as it formed. He couldn't remember the last he’d felt so carefree, like a child again, he was focussed on only one thing, winning the race. And then, as if by magic he’d passed his golden hair angel, his David. The red door of their apartment building was in sight, though it was difficult to see in the dark. 

 

“Ha,” he said, breathing hard as Enjolras slipped to a stop behind him. 

 

“I let you win,” Enjolras argued, poking Alexander in the chest, “you never would have won otherwise, there’s no way your little legs could have carried you fast enough.”  
  
“Of course, let us all bow down to Enjy, the fastest man in all of Paris and, indeed France.” Alex bit back, unlocking the doors. 

 

“As they should. I am a wonder,” Enjolras quipped, moving past Alexander in to the apartment building.

 

“What made you run?” Alexander asked once they were sitting on the moth-eaten sofa.

 

“Impulse, I needed to move before I went on a tirade,” Enjolras, buried his face into Alexander’s shoulder.

 

“About?”

 

“Grantaire,” that was all Enjolras needed to say, and yet, he carried on, “he’s so clearly intelligent. Why doesn’t he have a cause he wishes to fight for? Who can believe in nothing?”

 

“I don’t think he believes in nothing, Enj,” Alexander answered as Enjolras took a breath.

 

“But, doesn't everyone have a belief, cause worth fighting for?”

 

“I suppose…” Alexander trailed off, caught up in the blaze of Enjolras’s eyes. 

 

“Why does he not?” 

 

Maybe it was the passion in his friend’s eyes, the inferno that swirled in them in the dim candle light. Maybe it was the rum he’d had at the café. Maybe it was impulse, the way the Enjolras had just started to run, made Alexander think of running. He had so many feelings all building up inside him, like a bottle of champagne that had been shaken for too long, he was about to pop. And, Enjolras was so beautiful, so alive, so there and so, so passionate; he made Alexander burn with light. Maybe, this was all why Alex grabbed the front of Enjolras’s shirt and kissed him. 

 

Enjolras made a small noise of surprise, and Alexander pulled back, but then Enj had his hands in Alexander’s hair crushing them together. If Alex had thought Enjolras was warm when he was by his side, it was nothing compared to now, he felt as though he was being set alight. Heat burned through him to the very core of his being, pooling somewhere low in his gut; settling there like a fire in a pit. Enjolras was not shy with his hands; they roamed all over, so quickly Alexander could barely register where they were. One moment they were tangled in his hair; the next they were ghosting over his cheekbones, brushing his jaw and then they were dipping lower, unbuttoning his shirt. Enjolras kissed like he thought, chaotic and quick, too fast for any man to keep up, any man except the man he was kissing; Alexander met him at every turn, every pass of his hands, Alex was there, keeping his pace. 

 

“Remind me, why have we not been doing this since we met?” Enjolras asked, his lips were a dark, bruised red. 

 

“Because,” Alexander said moving to kiss his neck, unable to resist the marble white column, with Enjolras’s Adam’s apple bobbing just so, “when we met we were eleven.” 

 

The moon hung low, and rain started to pour down as clouds covered the sky, hiding the stars from view. Paris went to sleep, unaware, innocent in the way only Paris was. The Seine flowed, the bats flittered through the sky. The candles burned low in the room, spilling their wax over the edge of the tables, the fire burned out in the grate. 


	3. Jeune, féroce, et affamé.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Meet John-Laurence Thénadier.

John-Laurence Thénadier, crept like a cat down the hall, hoping and praying to God and whoever was up there, that his father would not wake. He poked his head around the door to his sister’s room, Éponine was asleep, kicking at something invisible to all but her. She looked so young, so fragile, as though a gust of wind would knock her down; but that was not Éponine, no, Éponine would throw her fist up at the wind and curse it so the wind would flee from her. 

 

The wood creaked as he closed Éponine’s door, knowing how she hated it when someone left it open, some plaster flaked off the ceiling and into his hair. The wallpaper was hanging off the walls, there were so many holes in the ceiling, his mother hadn't even tried to clean up the damp spots, the floorboards creaked so much because they were warped from the water that dripped on to them almost all the time at this time of year. John couldn't remember the last time he’d had a proper meal in his belly; the hunger hollowed him from the inside out. He also couldn’t remember where his jacket was, so he stole in to the kitchen and took his father’s from the back side of the door. 

 

He scuttled down the stairs, hearing his shoes echo on the tiles, they were broken and cracked and they made him slip a little. The entrance doors weren't locked, they never were, but John pushed against them experimentally anyway. He was shaking slightly from hunger, the world tipped alarmingly as he stepped outside onto the damp pavement. As he did so, two boys raced past him, he caught a glimpse of white blonde hair; the darker haired one illuminated by the light of a flickering street lamp didn't even look back at him. 

 

He had woken from a dream, a dream when he wasn't John-Laurence Thénadier; one where he fought for freedom, one where he was a hero. A dream where he was loved; not just by one person, though that would be enough for him now, but by two people. They had curled around him, holding him, keeping him safe and his stomach hadn't growled at him. He had been John Laurens, the dream had shown him America, during the year 1776. He had sneaked into the University’s Library one day, when it looked crowded enough for him not to get caught and looked up the name. As he’d read the words on the page, his whole being had danced and sang and affirmed to him that yes, this was he. He’d stroked a slightly grubby finger over the page, touching the name and looking at the tiny little portrait in the corner of the page. He’d nearly skipped home; he would have had he not been afraid of his shoes falling apart. 

 

It was impossible for him to sleep after one of the dreams, so he’d gotten into the habit of wandering the streets. When he woke, he would slip out of the house and walk Paris; he would imagine it was London, or Geneva, or Charleston. He would look up at the sky and wonder, if God was trying to punish him by putting him in the very situation he had never been grateful he’d never had to face before. Had he really taken all of John Laurens’ wealth for granted? Had he ever looked at food with disdain? Right now he’d settle for a rat or a squirrel, but had he thrown away his spoon when something he didn't want was placed in front of him? Had he ever given his food to someone who’d needed it? He couldn't remember those details. In a way, he was glad, he didn't have to be envious of the life he’d had. 

 

Paris, looked only a little like it had done when he had visited on the way from Geneva to London, it still had it’s wide streets lined with smart white buildings. Now, though, it the the Louvre, not that John could afford to get in, though he dreamed one day, maybe, he’d meet Alexander and Lafayette again and maybe they could afford it. He knew this dream was a farfetched one. He knew there was nothing he could do to escape poverty. He was not as prone nor as inclined to writing as Alexander had been, though he thanked God for allowing him to keep his ability to read and write, his mother and father had not allowed him schooling. And, so there was little for him to do, apart from steal and run and fight for every morsel of food that was thrown his way. 

 

He meandered his way down the streets, hunger drunk and unaware of exactly where he was going. Before he bumped into someone, and tripped, smacking his head on the pavement. 

 

“Merde! Are you alright,” asked the someone pulling him to his feet. “I’m so sorry. I have this habit of not looking where I’m going.”

 

“’Twas just as much my fault as yours, think nothing of it,” John muttered, brushing some of the dirt and grime off him.

 

“Your head looks pretty nasty, it’s bleeding - No! Don’t touch it, your fingers are so dirty. Come with me, I’ll clean it up.” The man said, gripping John’s arm and leading him to the doorway, “I live just here, my name’s Joly.”

 

“John-Laurence, but please, just John,” he said, brushing blood out of his eye from where his cut had dripped. 

 

“Good to meet you, Just John,” Joly smiled, wetting a clean cloth and pressing it to John’s forehead. “When was the last time you ate, John? You look like you’re wasting away.”

 

“Ah, maybe, yesterday?” John tried to think, tried to remember, had he eaten that bread or had he given it to Gavroche? 

 

“What did you eat, yesterday?” Joly prodded at his arm, feeling the bone beneath the muscle. “How old are you, John?”

 

“Bread, I think, I can’t remember. I’m twenty three.” 

 

“Twenty three? How long have you been without proper food?” Joly ducked down to look John in the eye, his eyes were leaded and heavy with pity, no, not pity, just empathy. 

 

“A long time, maybe years,” John blushed, he knew he was small, he hadn't had enough food growing up; he’d had to give it all to Éponine and then to Gravroche, and Marc, and then Olivier; he was about two inches shorter than he should be. 

 

“Do you want some food now? Or would you rather a bath, then food?”

 

“You don’t need to do that,” John said, shaking his head and pulling away from Joly’s kind hand on his shoulder. 

 

“Nonsense, Bossuet and ‘Chetta will be home, soon; they would never forgive me for letting a friend go hungry and dirty in our home,” Joly bustled around the small kitchenette, pouring a bowl of broth into a pan to heat up. “Now, food or bath first?””

 

“A friend?” John wondered out loud, he’d not had a friend in so long. Not a real friend, the friend’s he’d had growing up would all stab him in the back for a slice of bread; he wasn't sure he wouldn't do the same. 

 

“Yes, John, a friend,” Joly came over and drew John in to his arms, “what has the world done to you?”

 

“I’ll take the food, please,” John muttered, struggling with the touch as well as leaning in to it, yearning for more. 

 

“Then the bath, you can’t expect to sleep well like that, not in my bed at least,” Joly said going back to the kitchen and taking the now warm broth off the stove. 

 

“I can’t take your bed, that’-“

 

“Nonsense, I usually end up in Bossuet and Chetta’s anyway, you may as well have mine,” Joly shook his head and beckoned for John to sit at the kitchen table. 

 

“Aren’t you going to eat?” John asked, realising that he would not change Joly’s mind. 

 

“Hmmm? Oh I ate at the café, don’t worry, I’ll go and heat you up some water; you’ll need some clothes as well. No matter, I think Courfeyrac left some last time he was here, they’ll fit.”

 

“I can’t take clothes, food, a bath, and a bed,” John gasped, “that’s too much.”

 

“It’s not,” Joly shook his head again. 

 

“Can I do anything to repay you?” John begged.

 

“Can you read and write?” Joly asked. 

 

“Aye,” John nodded, bobbing his head up and down so fast his hair fell in front of his eye. 

 

“How fast are you at learning?” 

 

“Depends,” John shrugged, he could remember most of what he’d learned in medicine, but it had come so far in the time between now and when he’d studied it first.

 

“You know anything about medicine?” Joly peered at him.

 

“A fair bit, I wanted to be a doctor when I was younger, I bought every book I could; taught myself, but we could barely afford primary school, let alone university.” 

 

“Wonderful, next time there’s a rally, you come with me and be my assistant,” Joly said, “that’ll more than absolve your debt; now I really should heat up the water, you’re almost done with the broth. There is some bread in the cupboard, if you want.” 

 

“Thank you, Joly.”

 

Whilst Joly moved into the other room, John allowed himself to peer around, trying to find out more about this man who’d literally swept him off the street. The kitchen was clean, very clean; it was big and obviously fairly well stocked, going by the fact that there was actual meat in his bowl, John couldn't remember the last time he’d actually had meat. There were two oil lamps, both of them lit; one on the table and the other on the counter, though some light leaked in from the street lamp outside. The orange light filtered in through the large window that was over the sink. These were not the kind of people John was used to associating with. The hallway he’d stood in earlier had four doors leading off it; one had been the kitchen he was now in. 

 

“Come on, you really do need a bath, John. When was the last time you washed?” Joly poked his head round the door frame and stood there with is hands on his hips.

 

“I threw a pot of water over myself two days ago,” John shrugged and got up to follow Joly through the door opposite them.

 

There was a steaming hot tub sitting in the middle of the room, some clothes were folded on a chair next to it; a towel fluffier than John had ever seen, was on top of them. A fire roared in a grate next to the tub, heat and warm orange light spread through the otherwise dark room. John couldn't take his eyes off the tub, he’d not had a bath like this since he was about eight. 

 

“I’ll leave you to it,” Joly muttered, squeezing John’s shoulder, and patting him slightly. 

 

John stripped off his shirt and father’s jacket, not looking back as he took them off, but knowing they would make a grey, hole ridden pile on the floor. His trousers came off next, and then he was knee deep in hot water. He sunk down further into the water, feeling is caress his body; soothing his aches and pains. Sitting in the tub, he took the time to look at himself, he knew he’d been grimy but the water now looked a little grey though he’d only been in the tub about five seconds, he had so many cuts and bruises and scars his body looked like it had lived five centuries. There was a puckered scar between his ribs on the left side of him, he knew that was were Alexander had been shot; he could remember the burning pain, not as bad as it would have been because it was shared between three, he remembered looking down and seeing the blood, hot, wet and red pouring down his side. Then it had all gone dark and when he’d consciously remembered being John Laurens he had been sixteen years old again. The water was still steaming hot, so he sunk down below the surface and reached down for the soap to wash his hair. From under the water, he could hear two people walk in to the apartment; he heard Joly’s voice. 

 

“He looks just like him; he’s got the same name too,” Joly said, muttering, trying to keep his voice down.

 

“Alexander’ll know,” a deep male voice answered. 

 

“I swear it’s him, his name is John-Laurence. How could that be coincidence, Bossuet,” Joly said.

 

_“Alexander’ll know,”_ those words struck him to his core. _Alexander._ His Alexander?


	4. Renégat.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Enjolras has been falling for Alexander for as long he can remember.

 

The café Musain was a pocket of peace, sitting outside of normality, a microcosm of a sane world. It was for Enjolras at least, he looked around at his friends, youthful and vital; they stood out against the citizens of Paris. He sat at his usual table in the corner, with Courfeyrac and Combeferre on either side of him, they were laughing and gesticulating at something Grantaire had said. He said nothing, content to watch his friends joke and argue, he happy, tonight at least to let the world go by and to take no part in it. 

 

“Enjy, you’re awfully quiet tonight, what wrong?” Courfeyrac asked, setting his glass of wine down and looking at Enjolras. 

 

The truth was, Enjolras didn't know what was wrong with him, but every fibre of his body to the very core of his being was screaming at him that something was very, very wrong. He felt like walls were closing in on him from every direction and there was nothing he could do to escape them. The candle in the middle of their table was spilling its wax ever further out, a large lake of white that was spreading fast; soon it would burn out. Enjolras watched at the flame bobbed and danced in the light breeze. Instead of looking at Courfeyrac he kept his eyes focused on the wood, pitted and pot marked from many bottles and fights, the table looked like it had valleys made out of dark stone. Instead of just answering Courfeyrac, telling him he didn't know what was wrong, Enjolras got up and walked out of the café. 

 

Paris was cold, it was always cold at this time of year, the trees that lined the streets were bare; their leaves were long gone. People walked around with hats and coats and scarves, if they could afford them. Enjolras took two deep; long breaths, watching as his breath dissipated in to the starless sky. He ran his fingers through his hair, shaking out the long blond curls; combing through it for any erstwhile things that may have ended up in it. Hooves sounded on the cobblestones, there was a clatter of wheels; a carriage trundled past, Enjolras had the strangest urge to hide, he didn't though he did turn his back to the carriage. 

 

“They sent me out to make sure you hadn't died or something,” came a grunt from the door of the café.

 

“Well, I’m not dead; so there’s your answer,” Enjolras turned around to face Grantaire. 

 

“Good, that’s good…” Grantaire trailed off, he scratched the back of his head. 

 

“You should go back in, you’ll catch a chill or something,” Enjolras muttered, watching as Grantaire moved towards him.

 

“You left your jacket, Apollo,” he said, handing it over. 

 

“Right, thanks,” Enjolras watched as Grantaire shook his head, curly black hair falling to his eyes, and turned to leave. 

 

He leant up against one the window sills, looking in to the black abyss that towered above him. The cold air burned its way down his throat as he breathed again. He thought about Alexander, and how he looked when he spoke about something he felt strongly about. How there was so much passion locked into such a small man. He thought about the stories Alexander had told him, how he’d thought they were all just jokes until Alex told him they were true. Alex hadn't just stopped there, he’d gone in to the library; puled out a book on American history and pointed to himself, reciting facts and names and date that Enjolras knew he’d not memorised. They were together almost the whole day, how would Alexander have had the time? Not only that, the man in the portrait Alex showed him looked so similar, it wasn’t just a passing resemblance. Enjolras wondered if there was a soulmate out there for him. 

 

He looked inside the café, Courfeyrac and Combeferre sat with their heads pressed together, deep in discussion; no doubt about him. Grantaire sat at the bar, hunched over with his bottle in hand, Jehan next to him laughing at something Joly said. He was shocked at how Grantaire looked when he was with Jehan, the other man’s hand was on R’s back; Grantaire looked as though he was melting in to the touch, his whole posture was relaxing and his face, what Enjolras could see of it, was open and warm. They all looked warm and happy and loved, they were most of them smiling and talking. Combeferre looked out the window; straight at him and got up. 

 

“He does love you, you know,” he said, as he came out the door. 

 

“How could he? How could he when he’s got soulmates out there for him?” Enjolras scoffed, sinking to the slightly damp floor, head in his hands; his elbows on his knees. 

 

“He told me, he told me and Courf. He said, ‘I love him with all my heart, but why would he want me?’ So you know, he does love you.”

 

“If he said something like that, he’d do something about it, you know Alexander,” Enjolras laughed, shaking his his head, blond curls falling in front of his face. 

 

“He doesn’t want to ah, jump the gun, so to speak.” Combeferre managed a weak chuckle. “Not this time at least.” 

 

“Anything I could offer him would be poultry compared to what his soulmates gave him.”

 

“Enjy, have you ever considered the fact that Alexander already has two soulmates, why would it be so in conceivable for him to have a third?” Combeferre sat down beside him. 

 

“What?” Enjolras said flatly, refusing to believe that Combeferre had said what he had. 

 

“Why can’t Alexander have more than two soulmates,” ‘Ferre said again.

 

“What makes you think that I even have a soulmate?” 

 

“How could someone like you not?” ‘Ferre shrugged and got up, pulling Enjolras with him, “now, don’t we have a rebellion to plan?”

 

“That we do.”

 

Each time seeing Alexander was like seeing him for the first time all over again; that was what Enjolras had decided. He looked as Alexander entered the café and saw him on the table, grinning, teeth showing white in the low light. He shouted and gesticulated drawing the Amis into a frenzy, pouring motivation out through his words. Though, he couldn't see anyone in the café but Alexander. He was wearing a soft, black jacket, a dark green waistcoat was visible where the jacket didn't do up anymore due to lack of buttons. There were several patches in the jacket, and it had obviously been adjusted many times. Alexander’s hair hung in loose curls, framing his face, they stuck up in every direction though they were slightly damp from the rain. He had paused at the door, standing there; looking up at Enjolras, with his eyes round and lips slightly parted; Enjolras had to physically focus on not jumping down from the table and kissing him right then and there. Alexander was a hurricane, blowing everything down in his path but also lifting it up and making it new; he was the sunshine after the storm as well as being the storm itself. He was destructive as well as creative; but at the same time, he was almost quiet and considered. Not only that, but, Alexander was fiercely, fiercely intelligent; the depth of his intellect shocked Enjolras sometimes. 

 

“Get off the table, Enjolras, Alex’s here,” Grantaire said, looking over at him.

 

“Oh yes, Alexander, where?” Enjolras tried to make it look like he’d not been staring at the man since he’d walked in. He hopped off the table as Alexander came forward, he leant into the other man and whispered in his ear, “you took your time, Alex.” 

 

“I had think. I needed some time,” Alexander looked so tired, so worn and crumpled, now that Enjolras was close enough to see him properly. His mind flashed back to the times he’d had to wake Alexander in the middle of night, because he was screaming and crying. 

 

“You have dreams again?” He asked, examining Alexander closer, his eyes flickering over Alex’s face and body.

 

“Uhm, no,” Alexander had never been a great lier, he stopped making eye contact and blushed furiously; so Enjolras raised his eyebrow, knowing it was a surefire way of making Alex tell the truth, “yes. But they’re not of the war.” He admitted. 

 

“Oh?” Enjolras had known Alex to have peaceful dreams of his past life, but usually they were short-lived and unclear, they’d spent hours in the library trying to figure Alexander’s life out. 

 

“Yeah, these ones are nice, peaceful and happy,” Alexander said, shifting, his hands curling round the bottom of his waistcoat as Enjolras saw the flush that was creeping up his cheeks. 

 

“Well,” he said, chocking slightly, “we’ve more important things to think about, today. We need to start thinking about the rallies this year and where we’re going to get some members from.” 

 

“Aye, I’ve thought about that. To the back?” The fire, the same old burn was alive in Alexander’s eyes, they spoke of revolution themselves. 

 

“You go,” Enjolras said as he remembered seeing Courfeyrac and Combeferre disappear into the loos, “I’ll get ‘Ferre and Courf. They’ll need pulling out of the loos,” he winked, not noticing the way Alexander’s eyes darkened as he did so. 

 

“Sure.” Alexander grinned, slapping him on the back, fingers trailing off slowly, torturously. 

 

Grantaire was being his usual self, arguing against everything that Enjolras and Alexander said, pushing them to their limits. It wasn’t that Enjolras didn't enjoy the debates, he just didn't like seeing Grantaire with that sour look on his face. He wanted that Grantaire he’d seen in the café talking to Jehan and Joly, the one with fire in his eyes and a grin on his face. He found himself more and more intrigued with Grantaire, the more he talked to him; the more he learned about him. 

 

Finally, Alexander dragged him away, when Grantaire was on his second bottle of wine. He couldn't stop himself from talking about Grantaire, he slung an arm around Alexander’s shoulders, to keep himself steady, having not stayed sober that night either. He leaned in to Alexander’s heat, feeling his body warm up against the winter cold. The stars had finally showed up, gazing down with on them with an unnerving sense of omniscience. 

 

“Why don’t Achilles and Patroclus have a constellation?” He asked, hoping Alexander would get his reference, praying that he wouldn't have to make his feelings any more clear. 

 

“Because,” Alexander began, considering the matter deeply, his eyes on the sky, focused on Orion, “they’re together in afterlife, where they belong,” he said, his hand pointing to the ground. 

 

Enjolras’ stomach sank, Alexander hadn't gotten the message he’d tried to send, “Will we be together in the afterlife?” He tried again, leaning further in to Alexander.

 

“If you permit it,” Alexander turned to look at him, gazing deep in to his eyes, piercing him. 

 

“Race you home!” Enjolras shouted as emotions bubbled at the surface of his brain, he had had to stop himself from kissing Alexander right there, in the middle of the street. 

 

At some point, he’s stopped trying to win, just wanting to see the look on Alexander’s face when he beat him. His had this look, whenever he won something, this small smile of victory that lit up his face and eyes; it made Enjolras want to look at him forever, to preserve that look and keep it with him. He fell a little more in love with Alexander each and every day; considering they’d known each other for about twelve years, Enjolras was entirely smitten. 

 

He came to a slippery stop, just behind Alexander, who crowed his victory at him, though Enjolras was too busy staring into to the other man’s eyes. 

 

“I let you win,” Enjolras said, poking Alex in the chest, “you’d never have won otherwise, there’s no way your little legs could have carried you fast enough.”

 

  
“Of course, let us all bow down to Enjy, the fastest man in all of Paris and, indeed France.” Mocked Alexander as he unlocked the doors to their slightly shit apartment. 

 

“As they should. I am a wonder,” Enjolras laughed touching Alexander on the shoulder to let him know he was behind him

 

“What made you run?” Alexander as they sat side by side on the sofa.

 

“Impulse, I needed to move before I went on a tirade,” Enjolras, buried his face into Alexander’s shoulder. That wasn’t entirely true, he’d had to run to stop himself from jumping on Alex and pinning him to the wall of some random building. 

 

And then, one minute he’d been making up some excuse about Grantaire, hoping that Alexander would believe him enough to drop the subject or change it to something he didn’t have to lie about, then he was being kissed. Enjolras could hear ‘Ferre’s words in his head, could hear Courf laughing but he was too shocked to move, to do anything as Alexander pressed his lips to his own. Alex’s lips are warm, a little dry and chapped as they move against him, Alex’s hands flail slightly trying to find the right place to put themselves; then they find their way to the front of Enjolras’s shirt, pulling him closer. Enjolras gasped slightly, unable to figure out quite what was happening; then he felt Alexander start to pull away, he felt the pressure let up from his mouth. He didn't want this to end, ever, so he shoved his hands in to Alexanders, hair, tangling his fingers into the silky locks, letting them flow around his hands. The heat they were creating would be enough to keep them warm, even without the stove they had burning. Enjolras needed to feel Alexander, to make sure this was real, that he wasn’t imagining it all; so he moved his hands out of Alexander’s hair and ran them over face. He deepened the kiss; it was so desperate, after years of pining and dreaming and hoping and Alexander met him step by step, pace for hurried pace. 

 

 

“Remind me, why have we not been doing this since we met?” Enjolras grinned, as Alexander leaned forward and attacked his neck. He could still feel the other man’s lips against his own, revelling in the bruised feeling. 

 

“Because,” Alexander said in between pressing kisses to Enjolras’s neck, he was unable to hold back a moan when Alex found the right spot. “when we met we were eleven.” 

 

"I was going do that first, you know,” Enjolras sighed, as Alexander moved his way back up, hands fiddling with Enjolras’s shirt buttons and neck tie. 

 

"You were taking too long,” Alexander grinned, kissing him again, deeply. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Revel in the love and cuteness before the pain, my friends.


	5. Le Désir

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> See a reunion. Enjoy the happiness while it lasts.

Alex woke, Enjolras had already left for his early class, or maybe he’d gone to dig Grantaire out of the painting hole he’d dug himself into. Light streamed in through the window; the fire had become ash and ember since they’d left it to burn out. There was a hunk of bread and honey under a cloth on the kitchen table. He padded around the apartment picking up the pages of his latest assignment; regretting not putting his shoes on as his bare feet came in contact with the cold wood floor. He picked up his shirt from where they’d thrown it, grimacing as he noticed at least five of the buttons were missing, he tossed it in to the laundry bucket in the corner of his room. He knew he didn’t have a clean shirt, so he walked in to Enjolras’s room and stole one of his shirts that hung in the wardrobe; and tied his black neck tie round the high collared shirt. 

 

The morning was crisp and clear, the sun hung high in the sky and there were only a few clouds dotted through the blue. Students on bikes raced past him spraying him with the water the was still sitting in the gutters. He grumbled as he brushed down his coat, he passed Bahorel on his way in. 

 

“Enjolras is starting a riot in there! Get there fast!” Bahorel shouted, running past him.

 

“Great,” Alexander muttered, nodding to Bahorel.

 

When Alexander walked in to the university, the main hall was full to the brim of students and staff, they were gathered around a table in the centre. On top of the table stood Enjolras, the sunlight glittered off his hair, turning it almost white. Why Enjolras felt the need to stand on a table each time he saw one, Alexander didn't know. He moved about on top of the table, turning and facing each side, gesticulating wildly. Imploring the people to see the injustice that moved about them in the very air they breathed. He could see to the side, Grantaire speaking to a man who was partially obscured by the crowds; though Alexander could not hear the words he spoke until he got closer. 

 

“…please tell my friend Enjolras to get down off that table so I can introduce you to him,” Grantaire said, laughing at Enjolras, who was inciting quite the riot. The mass of people now more resembled a swarm of angry bees, they were moving and jostling, trying to get closer to the table to hear better what Enjolras was saying. There was shouting and cheering, as well as jeers and boos; Alexander spotted Jehan a little over to the right of Grantaire. He leaned into his friend. 

 

“Jehan, run and get Joly, we may need his help here, before Julien is done.”

 

“Fine, but you’ll have to tell me everything I miss,” Jehan smiled and ran out of the building, fighting his way to through the crowd. 

 

“Grantaire, there is no way I am getting down off this table until you tell me that I’m right! The people will rise and-“ Enjolras looked positively enraged at the suggestion he abandon his post. He pouted indignantly, crossing his arms and stamping his foot. 

 

Alexander, wormed his way to the front of the circle that had formed around Enjolras, he was being jostled and poked and punched from every direction, but nothing would stop him from reaching Julien. He needed to stop him running off his mouth before he was arrested and thrown out of the university. 

 

***

 

“Get off the table, Julien,” the voice echoed above the crowds, the tangled web of students and teachers. The blond man, _Julien,_ looked around to see who had spoken, who had interrupted his impassioned speech about the rights of man. Lafayette recognised the voice, it had been in his dream.

 

_“Lafayette, mon amour, let me kiss you.”_

 

_“Yes a thousand times yes.”_ The voice echoed about his ears, and drove a point right through his heart. A spike of heat and yearning. 

 

“Alexander?” He said. Looking up to see a face, he thought he would never see again. Alexander looked no different to how he’d looked during the war, they were about the same age they’d been, though now he wore his hair shorter, more wild. Alex’s eyes widened, a look of shock bloomed on his face, his lips parted and a blush rose to his cheeks. Lafayette was moving before he could stop himself, fighting his way through the crowd to reach Alex. 

 

***

 

John was woken up by Joly shouting for him. He groaned as he turned over, scrubbing his hands over his eyes and kicking the blankets off him, letting the cold air in to the bed. His shoulders felt better than they had in weeks, he couldn't remember the last time he slept on a bed. He rolled them experimentally feeling how loose they were after a night of relaxation. He sat on the edge of the bed for a few minutes letting the previous nights events catch up with him. 

 

“John?” Joly said poking his head round the door to his room, “ah good, you’re awake, Jehan has just come in; he says there may be some trouble at the university.”

 

“Trouble? What kind of trouble?” John asked, hating how his voice croaked with sleep. 

 

“A riot, well, it was supposed to be a rally and it was supposed to not start until five this evening,” Joly said rolling his eyes. 

 

“A riot?” John’s eyes widened, he was suddenly feeling more awake. 

 

“Yes, these things sometimes kick off, we’ll never know if they’ll need us but ‘Ferre likes us all to be at them just incase one of us gets hurt. I mean, usually it’ll be Alex or Enjy but… anyway, get dressed and we’ll head on down.” Joly started to ramble but the sound of someone shuffling in the kitchen broke him off. “Jehan! If you so much as eat a biscuit-“ Joly muttered, walking out of the room.

 

“Right. A riot.” John sighed, pulling on the waistcoat and jacket that were hung by the door, he sat on a chair to pull his new shoes on sighing as he wriggled his feet into shoes that were not two sizes too small. 

 

He clattered in to the hall, still pulling the laces on the shoes. There was a startled grunt from the door, a red haired man was looking at him, eyes wide; he grabbed Joly’s arm and tugged on the sleeve of his coat. 

 

“John-Laurence, meet Jehan; Jehan, meet John,” Joly said, brushing Jehan’s hand off him. 

 

“Nice to meet you, John-Laurence,” Jehan seemed to recover and fixed John with a stunning smile, like the whole world seemed to light up and focus all its brilliance on to him.

 

“And you, are you one of the men who are rioting?” John asked, finishing tying his shoe and holding out his hand.

 

“Well, I’m here, so obviously I’m not rioting,” Jehan said, though there was no malice in his voice, just a gentle teasing tone. 

 

“Right, we should start moving,” Joly said, pressing a large case into John’s hands, “you hold this, when we get to the university, we’ll need to find a place to set up shop. Somewhere quiet and out of the way. Stay out of trouble and don’t punch anyone.” 

 

“Why would I punch someone?” John asked, innocently.

 

“Don’t think I can’t see the bruises on your knuckles,” Joly looked at him, raising an eyebrow. 

 

By the time they got the university, the fights had spilled on to the street outside, people and fallen over on the slippery cobbles and there was chaos. Terror and adrenaline shocked through John, as he wormed his way in-between the bodies and fights. The sun shone brightly on the scene, casting shadows and patches of dark amongst them. The noise was something John hadn't expected and it ran in his ears, making it so he couldn't really hear anything either. John couldn't see anything apart from Joly’s back; he made sure to focus on it, keeping it in his line of sight as they moved past the seething mass of people. He concentrated on Joly and his own breathing, trying to rein in the panic that was bubbling up inside him, he couldn't get arrested, he had a family to provide for. He heard Joly shout something and before he knew it they had come to a stop in an area inside the university building. There was a small table and a slightly damaged chair beside it, there was enough light streaming in through the window above them to make it easy enough to see in the small space. John put the bag down on the table and started to unload Joly’s equipment. 

 

“Who’s he?” Asked someone from behind them, “I didn't know you were allowed apprentices anymore.”

 

“Combeferre, this is John-Laurence,” Joly said, something heavy coloured his voice, like John was significant in anyway.

 

“John-Laurence?” John turned to see a tall, dark haired man looking at him with a spark of interest. “Nice to meet you, wish it could be in different circumstances.”

 

“You too,” John shrugged and went to take more equipment out of the bag.

 

“Are you a student of medicine?” Combeferre asked, standing beside John and looking at the tools they’d brought.

 

“Of sorts. I wanted to study it but my parents couldn't afford the fees, so I read just about everything I could,” John said, leaving out the part where he’d studied in the 1770s.

 

“I see, I wish you’d been given the chance,” Combeferre said, John looked up at him, trying to see the pity and amusement in his eyes; instead, all he came away with was sincerity. 

 

“My thanks,” John answered, smiling. 

 

Their spot was perfectly placed off to the side of the action, so they could see just about everything, without being involved in it themselves. Combeferre, John found out was a student of medicine, about a year in advance or so of Joly; he was soft spoken with a deep interest in philosophy. John took an instant liking to him. John found himself talking more easily in the older man’s presence than he’d ever done before with strangers. They had an easy sort of banter, quietly joking and laughing through the midst of the chaos in front of them. 

 

There was a large tangle in the middle of the room, that was nigh on impossible to see into. It was centred round a table, and according to Combeferre, was were the whole thing had started. Combeferre explained to Joly that Enjolras had stood on the table to give a speech; about the rally that afternoon, Grantaire had turned up and started to antagonise him, though had quickly stopped when he realised the crowd had become less and less friendly. Joly suggested that they send in people to try and find, Enjolras, Grantaire, and whoever else had been with them, but Combeferre shook his head. 

 

“It’s too dangerous, no way would anyone be able to find their way in and out of that.”

 

“I could,” John said, the riot, whilst intimidating was nothing compared to the battle of Yorktown, or Monmouth, or Cowpens. “I can find my way in and out, just describe who I’m looking for and I’ll get them.”

 

“Are you sure?” Combeferre looked at him. 

 

“Yes, yes of course I am,” John nodded, this was nothing compared to being shot at with a hundred British guns. 

 

“Right, well the easiest person to find would probably be Alexander, that boy is loud.” Combeferre said, “he’s about this high,” he held his hand up to his shoulder, just under John’s nose, “he’s got hair about your colour but shorter and straighter, its kind of curly but wild and messy.” 

 

“Yeah okay,” John said, “I got it.” John had known, had somehow felt it. That this was his Alexander. Of course he’d be right in the action; right in the thick of things political. It would be Alexander starting riots and going to students’ rallies. He sounded exactly the same as he’d been in 1804, small, fiery and loud. John’s stomach twisted with anticipation. 

 

He moved through the crowds, imagining this was just another battle, grass seemed to sprout from the floor boards and the shouts melded in to musket fire. The small wooden rod he held in his hand, for protection Joly had said, turned in to his trusty sabre as he fought his way through the writhing swarm of people. He ducked under fists and side stepped as bricks and rocks launched their way at his head, like grape shot. He could almost feel the heavy gaze of Washington on him; he could almost look down and see his bright white breeches and bright blue coat. His knees collided with wood, he’d found the table and looked up to see two people in a fierce fight. No, they weren’t fighting. They were embracing. His eyes adjusted to being able to see clearly and his heart stopped. 

 

“No.” He choked.

 

***

 

Alexander felt someone hit the table, felt it move in to his hip, but he didn't let go of Lafayette. Tears streamed their way down his face, at first streams, then rivulets, and now they were full on floods. He sobbed desperately into his friend’s jacket, clutching at him for support lest his legs give way then and there. Emotions, stronger than he’d ever felt barraged into him with unrelenting force, wriggling their way under his skin; and working him apart at the seams. 

 

“Lafayette, my Lafayette, my love. I am sorry,” he gasped and sobbed. 

 

“Why, why would you be sorry, Alexander? Mon Alexander, mon coeur, mon rêve,” Lafayette’s hands found their way in to his hair and tangled themselves in his locks, grasping him and keeping him close; holding him so firmly against the other’s body as if to never let go.

 

“I killed us, I killed us all,” Alexander continued to sob and cry, before he felt a hand on his shoulder. 

 

“Non, non, never,” Lafayette whispered, “I think one of your friends, Enjolras, if I am correct is trying to get our attention,” Lafayette said, though he didn't lift his head from Alexander’s neck. 

 

“Let him be for now,” Alexander said, this time in English, for the first time in forever the words sounding weird in his mouth.

 

“He’s quite insistent,” Lafayette chuckled. 

 

“Both of you! Combeferre wants us all out of here,” Enjolras shouted, turning Alex away from Lafayette’s arm.

 

“How do you know? Is ‘Ferre here?” 

 

“No, but he sent him,” Enjolras pointed to - 

 

“John?” Alexander felt hysteria tugging at the corners of his mind and burst out in uncontrollable laughter. 

 

“Oh wonderful, he goes and embraces you, crying his heart out but for me, what do I get? Laughter.” John smiled though, his eyes filling up since the shock wore off. 

 

“He always liked me best mon cher,” Lafayette quipped, before John was in his arms, kissing his face over and over again. 

 

“I thought I’d have to live a life without you,” John said, as Lafayette started to cry anew, “I didn't know where you both were, we could have been on the other ends of the earth.” 

 

“But we were not. And now, we are together again.” Alexander tugged John to him, and they hugged so tightly Lafayette saw the seams of John’s coat start to rip as Alex grasped hold of him.

 

“Can some please tell me what in the name of all that is holy, is going on?” Grantaire shouted, looking part scandalised, part confused and part, Alexander couldn't really tell.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Kudos keeps me writing. Reviews make my day and, also might keep characters alive. Yes. I am not above blackmail.


	6. Une Constellation

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Enjolras is sad, John is grateful that his soulmates are here.

Enjolras sat on the roof of the cafe Musain, his knees were curled up to his chest and he rocked back and forth slightly, it was cold but clear and the stars were visible poking through the black carpet of night. There were pinpricks of light that shone through the windows in the houses and apartments that stretched across Paris. He could see the Champs de Elysees and the street lights that lined the wide boulevard, though he couldn’t really see much else, the only thing setting the street apart was the lamps. The trees around him swayed in the light wind, though the breeze was gentle, it was bitterly cold and Enjolras’s old red coat could hardly keep out the chill. He didn’t move, as he watched the world go by from his perch on the roof, he just sat there and rubbed his hands together to keep them warm. He could see smoke rise from the chimneys and even though he was high off the ground he could see people as they moved along the more well lit areas. He could see the banks of the Seine and the little boats that bobbed along its surface. He watched as a mother tucked her children in bed and kissed their foreheads before blowing out the candle on the window sill.

“Enjolras? Are you- is everything… are you alright?” He looked up and, framed by a small pocket of light, just above his curly brown hair, stood Grantaire.

“Did Courf send you?” Enjolras laughed bitterly. “No doubt they’re all down there getting to know Alexander’s soulmates.”

“No. No he didn’t, I came because I wanted to know if you were okay,” Grantaire moved forward, tripping over the uneven roof.

“Well, I’m fine, so you can go now.” Enjolras waved his hand in the vague direction of the door.

“Nah, you know what, I think I’m going to stay up here for a bit,” Grantaire sat down next to Enjolras who made a vague noncommittal noise.

Grantaire sat beside him, close enough for their knees to knock together, and for Enjolras to feel the warmth emanating from him. Grantaire didn’t speak, he sat and watched Paris, like Enjolras had been doing. Now though, Enjolras wasn’t watching Paris, now, he was watching Grantaire; he could see the fires and stars and smoke in his eyes.

“What happened, with Alexander, today…” Grantaire said, coughing, and turning to Enjolras.

“He found his soulmates, he’ll no longer want me. Why would he choose me over them?”

“Why don’t you let him make that choice? I’ve seen the way he looks at you,” Grantaire nudged him with his shoulder.

“Oh yeah? How does he look at me then?” Enjolras scoffed.

“Like you are the single most important thing in the world, the only thing he cares about; he looks at you like a drowning man looks for air, like he’d suffocate and die without you.”

“How do you know? Since when are you so interested in mine and Alexander’s relationship,” Enjolras looked at Grantaire a little closer, he could see the three day stubble dotting his skin, and the black circles that were permanently etched on Grantaire’s face.

“Because,” Grantaire paused and swallowed, “Because everyone can see it.  You’d have to be blind to miss it.”

“If you’re going to tell me to go down there, you’ve another thing coming,” Enjolras rolled his eyes.

“Why would I do that? When I can have you all to myself up here, Apollo,” Grantaire grinned and offered him a bottle, from where he got said bottled from, Enjolras didn’t really want to know; he took it anyway.

***

Alexander was in a state of euphoria, he had found his soulmates, the people he had resigned himself to living without for the rest of his days. They fit like pieces of pottery, smashed, dented and a little more than broken but when they were put together they created something beautiful. He sat on a sofa, snuggled comfily between John and Lafayette, Lafayette had decided that he was a leg rest but the warm weight hardly bothered Alexander. Since the end of the rally, he’d been so caught up getting to know John and Laf again that he’d hadn’t had time to explain things to Enjolras; he looked around the café trying to spot the familiar mop of blond hair.

“Courf, did you see where Enjy went?” Alexander asked, surfacing from the under the pile of his friends.

“To the roof I think, though R went after him, so I wouldn’t worry,” Courfeyrac said, gesturing up the flight of rickety stairs that lead to the roof.

“Lafayette, could you get your legs off me, I need to find Enjolras,” Alexander said, prodding Lafayette.

“Huh? Oh sure, Alexander, did you know Jehan was a poet,” Lafayette smiled, as he dragged himself out of conversation with Jehan.

“Considering I have known Jehan for the better part of four years, yeah I did,” Alexander chuckled and patted Lafayette on the cheek, “don’t have too much fun without me.”

“Oh sure, like we could ever have fun unless you graced us with you most glorious presence, oh mighty, mighty Alexander,” John deadpanned, without even blinking.

“I’d forgotten how mean you two were to me,” Alexander huffed as he stretched his aching joints.

“You’ll want a hot bath for that,” Joly and John said at the same time.

“Wonderful, there’re two of them,” Bossuet groaned, pressing his fingers to his temple.

“Someone needs to take care of you all, and I’d have no one else by my side,” Joly clapped John round the shoulders, who blushed and grinned.

“What about me? I study medicine too, you know,” Combeferre said, outraged.

“You, are far too irresponsible,” Joly shook his head.

“Did I mention that John duelled a general, in the war,” Alexander coughed.

“You what?!” Joly turned to John, shocked.

“He insulted Washington! Called him a coward!” John waved his hands.

“I thought duelling was illegal,” Jehan said.

“We were in New Jersey,” John shrugged, “weren’t you going to find Enjolras?”

“Oh yeah, I shouldn’t let you guys distract me so much,” Alex smiled and started up the crooked, narrow staircase that lead to the roof.

There was a small trapdoor, that someone had to push to open, though to get there there were about two hundred narrow; broken wood stairs. The trapdoor would once have been a thing of relative beauty, but like most things in the café Musain it was breaking and rotten, the hinges were rusting and they let out god awful shrieks each time they were nudged. There were no lamps to light the way up the stairs, no one was really supposed to use them, so Alexander had to steal an oil lamp from on of the tables to light his journey. The stairs creaked ominously as Alexander crept up them, the door was giving off a slightly gross smell. He pushed it with his shoulder and, letting the cold Paris air flow over him, he stepped out on to the roof of the café.    

“Enjy? Are you out here?” He called, poking his head around the door.

“Alexander?” Grantaire’s face appeared, as he stumbled over the detritus that was sprawled around the roof.

“R, I thought you’d be propping the bar,” Alex tried for nonchalance, leaning slightly awkwardly on the side of the door, almost falling.

“Not yet, I wanted to see the stars,” Grantaire said, gesturing to the dark sky, obviously choosing not to show that he’d seen Alexander struggling with the door.

“Is Enjolras here?” Alexander asked, looking around the the roof again.

“He’s over there,” Grantaire nodded to the edge of the roof, “though I can’t say he’d want to see you.”

Alexander shook his head, and decided not to listen to Grantaire, the other man had always been the most awful pessimist. He dodged through the loose tiles and broken bits and pieces of things long forgotten, moving to the edge of the roof, he could see the red coat and blond hair of Enjolras. He was sitting with his knees drawn up to his chest and his head tilted up; his lips were parted and even though the light was low, Alexander could see his breath as it curled into the cold air.

He didn’t talk for a while, he decided just to sit beside Enjolras, not too close but close enough to feel the other man’s heat. He approached slowly and carefully, taking his time to let Enjolras become aware of his presence and give him enough time to move away. He breathed out a breath of relief when Enjolras gave him a long sideways look but didn’t move. So he sat, leaning his back against a rotting trunk, curling his own knees up to his chest; an unconscious echo of Enjolras. They sat in silence for a good few minutes, neither of them really acknowledging the other, just sitting comfortably; staring at the stars.

“Do you still like me?” Enjolras broke the silence; if Alexander hadn’t been listening carefully he wouldn’t have heard them, they were barely above a whisper.

“Of course I still like you. Have you seen yourself lately? How could I not?” Alexander scoffed, nudging Enjolras a little.

“But do you still like me… you know…” Enjolras made a vague gesture, waving his head and jerking his head slightly, “since your real soulmates have shown up, I thought you’d dump me for them.”

“I barely know Lafayette and John, we’ve had a whole twenty three years of growing up since we last saw each other. I sure have changed since I last saw them, and from what I can tell, they’ve changed a whole lot too. I don’t know if I’ll like either of them like I like you, in this life time,” Alex sighed watching Enjolras’s face carefully.

“But… how do I know that you wont just leave me for them if you find out you do have feelings like that,” Enjolras was on the verge of tears, “I just got you in my life, after so long, I’m not sure I could let you go.”

Alexander felt his heart sink, to hear someone he loved in so much pain, “I shouldn’t worry, someone like you, I’d be a fool if I hurt you like that.”

Enjolras looked at him, through the curls that fell down over his eyes, he brought one hand up to Alexander’s face; tracing a line down his cheekbone and across his lips, the finger stopped when it reach the top of his cravat. Alexander tensed, drawing in a tight breath; he leant in to the touch, letting Enjolras build confidence in him, telling him silently that he wouldn’t run. He kept his gaze on Enjolras, who shifted round to face him, Enjolras ran his other hand through Alexander’s hair; still not speaking.

“Enj-“

“Hush, let me feel you. Show me you wont leave me.”

And with those words, Alexander stopped holding himself back, he stopped preventing himself from launching at Enjolras; he let his instincts take over and took Enjolras’s cheeks in his hands and kissed him. Alexander kissed Enjolras trying to convey in actions rather than words all the sentiments he felt, the whirling emotions that are too many and too complex to name. He tried to tell Enjolras that he had loved him since they were sixteen, since that day in when they arrived in Paris and Alex nearly fell in the Seine. He tried to tell him that even if he loved Lafayette and John (which he was pretty sure he couldn’t help) that he would still always love Enjolras, with all his heart. He tried to tell Enjolras that they way they fit, the way they move together was like stars in a constellation, that without each other they just wouldn’t work quite as well, they don’t have the same effect.

“How can I convince you that I love you?” He said, the words spilling off his tongue, sounding and feeling familiar.

There under the stars that shine on Paris, the city of lights, there in that moment everything that could be perfect, was. The world still spun on, but to those two, it did not feel like it; to those two on that rooftop, it felt like the world stood still, that time no longer moved the hands on the clock. To those two it felt like a perfect moment, quiet in the eye of a hurricane. For just a moment. One shining moment, everything was perfect.

***

John didn’t know it was, but the feeling in his gut screamed wrong. He extracted himself from the cuddle pile that was the Les Amis and practically ran out of the café, sat on the curb outside and looked up at the night sky, the constellations were different than they had been in America. The paving slab was cold and it seeped through the thin material of his trousers; not for the first time he wished for the thick buckskin breeches he’d worn for years.

“You’re lost in thought, my friend,” Lafayette said, John hadn’t heard him follow him out of the door, not until he was sitting down.

“I suppose I am,” John sighed, leaning on Lafayette’s shoulder, breathing in the familiar scent.

“And, what are you so lost in?” Lafayette nudged him slightly, one hand coming up and stroking through his hair.

“I was thinking about how we must be here for a reason. There must have been something drawing us here,” John sighed as Lafayette tugged through a particular spot.

“I agree, there has to be something we must do, people we must meet,” Lafayette gestured around flailing his free arm.

“Did you see the way Enjolras looked at Alexander?” John looked up at Lafayette a cheeky grin spread across his cheeks.

“Did you see the way Grantaire looked at Enjolras?” Lafayette winked, “perhaps there is something in that, non?”

“Perhaps. Tonight, though, can we just be together?” John pressed himself closer to Lafayette.

“Of course, mon amour, of course we can.” Lafayette said kissing the top of his head, his hand still buried in John’s curls.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Kudos keeps me writing. Comments literally make me roll around on the floor and scream, but also motivate me and may or may not save characters. (I am not above blackmail.)


	7. Ensemble.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Grantaire confronts Alexander about Enjolras. "Things" happen.

Grantaire had never been to Enjolras and Alexanders’ apartment, he’d stood outside waiting for them to go to a rally, but he’d never actually been inside. He had supposed it would be nice, spacious and light and well furnished; he knew their backgrounds, he knew they had rich parents and families so he’d thought their apartment would reflect that. It didn’t. The stairs going up to the flat were broken and old, they had a strange sort of musty smell and there were large patches of black mould seeping down the walls. The tiles covering the stairs were cracked and in some places, they’d come off completely. There were oil lamps in the stairwell but none of them were lit, the one window at the top was so grimy that only the barest amount of light filtered through it; so Grantaire had to feel and stumble his way up. Enjolras and Alexander lived at the top of the building, on the ninth floor, where the slope of the roof cause Grantaire to stoop and hunch over to prevent him from hitting his head on the rafters and beams. 

 

He got to the door, with the number 47 on it and raised a hand to knock. The door itself was painted black, at least he thought it might be, the paint was flaking off so he couldn't really tell what colour it was supposed to be. The bottom of the door had been eaten by mould and wood rot so that he could see the stained carpet beyond. There were large patches of damp wood and rotting carpet where the holes in the roof of the building had allowed water in to rot the floor; he supposed that that was where the musty smell was coming from. The door rattled in it’s hinges as his fist connected with the wood; he could hear someone shuffling inside, and the creak of the floor, he could see a shadow appear under the gap in the door. 

 

“Who is it?”

 

“Grantaire, I wanted to talk to you, Alexander,” he spoke through the wood.

 

“Ah, give me a moment. I am unfortunately not wearing an trousers at this present time,” Alexander shuffled back from the door; Grantaire could hear the muffled sounds of someone searching through a large pile of debris. He stood outside awkwardly shifting from foot to foot, waiting for Alexander to open the door. “Right. Come on in.” 

 

The door creaked slightly, and rattled in its place as Alexander dragged it back. A wall of warm air hit his face, a welcome relief from the freezing stairwell, although it was tinged with the smell of fish. He wrinkled his nose but stepped inside anyway and shrugged off his coat, hanging it on one of the nails that stuck out of the walls. He supposed, at one point, the apartment had been fully wallpapered, though now a combination of damp and age had stripped it of anything vaguely resembling wallpaper. The carpet was worse than he’d feared, and was so worn that great swathes of it was nothing short of disappearing; the colour had long since faded out of it, leaving just a dirty brownish grey in its place.The windows were rotting and cold air crept in through the gaps in the previously painted and glossed wood. They walked in to a narrow, dank corridor that the boys hadn't bothered to light. A few doors lead off it, all of them were open in an attempt to make it so one could see more than a few feet in front of their face. Grantaire couldn't though, he could just about see the light emanating from the kitchen, the hallway was so long and narrow. If he stretched his arms out even slightly he would slam in to the walls. The flat was so far detached from the opulent abode he’d had in his brain, he felt sorry for even assuming that Alexander and Enjolras lived in luxury. 

 

“We ran away when we were fifteen,” Alexander smiled slightly, noticing Grantaire’s expression, “a lawyer’s salary is not enough to earn our way out here, especially a lawyer that has not yet left the Sorbonne. We barely make enough to stay here and keep ourselves fed.”

 

“Oh… I’d-“

 

“I know, you thought that our parents payed for us to live somewhere nice. Well, they still don’t approve of me becoming a lowly lawyer, so if you think they approve of my, er, political pursuits then well,” Alexander spoke softly and without any venom, in fact, his voice was completely devoid of any emotion at all. 

 

“I’m… I’m sorry, I suppose being an unqualified lawyer is much like being an artist?” Grantaire shrugged, “hard work for little pay?”

 

“Indeed, I suppose in that respect we are very much alike,” Alexander nodded and lead them through to a small living room.

 

There was a tiny, moth eaten sofa, with holes so large in the cushions that stuffing was leaking out of them; a rough wool blanket was heaped in a pile next to it. A writing board rested on a crate, which obviously doubled as a table, the board had an old fashioned quill pen and ink bottle resting on it. There were papers spread all over the room, most of them covered in manifestos and slogans for rallies; there were some that were obviously letters and obviously not in Alexander’s handwriting. The windows in here were clean and enough light was spilling through that the sloped ceiling didn't effect the room’s brightness. A fire was burning sluggishly in the grate, and Grantaire could see that it would soon burn through all its fuel, Alex and Enjolras would be forced to scrounge for sticks and old newspapers to burn. There was a dirty plate next to the writing board, evidently Alexander hadn't been bothered to move since he’d taken his place maybe after breakfast. 

 

“So, you wanted to talk?” Alexander gestured to the sofa, whilst he himself took the rickety looking arm chair in the corner of the room.

 

“Er, yes, I suppose I did,” Grantaire took a deep breath, ignoring the bubbling worry that was slowly rising from somewhere past his throat. “I know about your soulmates, and I know what it’s doing to Enjolras and I also know that if there is something that could break the entire cause you both have worked so hard for, it would be that.”

 

“You come in here and think you know everything about a situation that does not concern you? Are you fucking joking, Ranae?” Alexander stood toe to toe with him, only now was Grantaire aware of how short he was; he barely came up to Grantaire’s chin. Grantaire was also acutely aware of just how angry Alexander was, though he did not shout, his voice was like ice and his nostrils flared like a bull. 

 

“He was on the verge of tears when I spoke with him on the roof,” Grantaire recovered from the shock of his first name being used rather gracefully, though it took him about a minute, “he said that you would leave him for them, he was so broken.”

 

“And, then I reassured him that I would never leave him. Why would you care so much, Ranae? You are always so cynical, so cruel when you talk of our cause; do not think I believe it is out of duty to it that had you come here today,” Alexander regarded him, a spark in his eye as he moved closer still to R. 

 

“Oh? Why else would I be here?” Grantaire stuttered, moving backwards even as Alexander advanced, like a lion ready to pounce on an unsuspecting creature. 

 

“You don’t love the cause, Ranae, you love Enjolras,” Alexander grinned, triumphantly, shoving him backwards further. 

 

Grantaire felt the spokes being driven in to his heart, red hot iron bars being poked through his very flesh. Alexander had cut straight to the heart of the issue, he was far too clever for his own good; not only that but he was very good at wielding his intelligence to have maximum affect. Grantaire felt his knees buckle as he tried to take a step backwards, but Alexander grabbed on to his shirt front, stopping him from falling. He couldn't breath, he felt the breath stop in his lungs as Alexander pulled him in close. 

 

“You love him, don’t you?” Alexander asked him, his face mere centimetres from Grantaire’s, his eyes flickering over Grantaire’s face.

 

“I- I-“ Grantaire couldn't remember how words worked, he couldn't string a sentence together; he didn't know what to say.

 

“It’s okay,” Alexander softened, and he let Grantaire go, straightening his neck tie and sitting him down on the sofa again. “I’m okay with it. We talked. Me and him. And Lafayette and John. We talked last night about,” he took a long breath, “about this stuff. We decided that we love whomever we love and we love them with abandon. I know you love him. I’ve been watching the way you look at him, the way you look like he’s a pool and you’re dying of thirst.”

 

“I don’t-“

 

“Trust me, you do and it’s okay. Do you want to know why it’s okay?” 

 

“Yes?”

 

“Because, and god knows why, he loves you too.”

 

“He, he what?” If Grantaire had forgotten how to use words earlier, now he lost all concept of rational thought altogether. He stuttered and stammered how Alexander was wrong, how Apollo, his god, his cause, could not love him. All this time Alexander watched him from the rickety chair in the corner, a bemused glint in his eye. “Surely he does not. Surely this is all some sort of cruel joke, I swear, Alexander if this is all a joke to you-“

 

“I wouldn’t.” Alexander shook his head, “I swear it on my life. It is no joke, he told me last night, we decided that it was okay for us to love other people physically and emotionally. All of us did.”

 

“Are you, are you okay with it?” Grantaire peered at Alexander, apprehensively looking in to his eyes for the first time since they’d started the conversation.

 

“I am.” Alexander nodded. “Come here, Ranae.”

 

“Why?” Grantaire had barely had a chance to relax and gather himself, he had been terrified; then confused; then shocked; then surprised and now he was back to confusion again.

 

“I want to try something,” Alex said, smiling, his voice was still soft; though his face was far more open, Grantaire could pick out hope and a trace of fear running through it. “Please.” The word was almost whispered, a silent plea. 

 

“Alright.” Grantaire stood and walked the length of the room, to Alexander who had stood from his chair as well. 

 

Grantaire was struck with the sudden, if not unwelcome, realisation that Alexander was going to kiss him. He was not totally, as some would believe, naive when it came to these matters; he had had experience with a few ladies and more than a few gentlemen (once he had worked out just where his preferences lay). He took the time Alexander took to give him a chance to move back, to consider Alexander a little more in the context with which he was now presented. Alexander was not a bad looking man, he was different to Enjolras, dark where the other was fair; small where the other was taller and slightly broader. His hair curled in a similar way, falling to just above his shoulders, framing is face. 

 

“Oh,” Grantaire’s thoughts were shattered by the feeling of lips against his, they were warm and smooth and he stopped thinking and just let himself move. His hand came round the back of Alexander’s neck, as Alex’s hands tangled in his hair, his other slipped down to Alexander’s hip. Their noses brushed as they worked out just the right angle, their teeth clack slightly, and Alexander dragged his teeth across R’s lower lip. R felt his eyes start to close as he sunk further in to the kiss. Their breaths mingled together swirling in to one, along with their tongues. 

 

“Well, that worked out,” Alexander said, when they pulled away for air. 

 

“It did.” Grantaire nodded, his hair bouncing in front of his eyes.

 

“Come here,” this kiss was less tentative, less unsure, more passionate and far more demanding. Alexander’s hands found their way back in his hair, tugging on the curls in a way that made him moan. The kiss was deeper and, before he knew it, Alexander was undoing the know on his neck tie, and his hands were fumbling with the buttons on Alexander’s shirt. “Just rip it, it’s Enjolras’s anyway.” Alexander said in between pressing hot opened mouthed kisses to his neck. 

 

He was being walked backwards again, back to the sofa, until his knees hit the lumpy seat and he sank down with Alexander on top of him, his knees either side of R’s hips. The kisses were becoming faster and, though R didn’t think it were possible, more and more heated. Grantaire’s hands, having torn the material away from Alexander’s shoulders, moved over his chest as Alex worked off his neck tie and started on his own buttons. 

 

“Shit.” Alexander said, flinging Grantaire’s neck tie somewhere across the room. “If there was one way I didn't expect this day to go, it was like this.”

 

“Are you sure Enjolras and the others wont mind,” Grantaire pulled away, hardly keeping his hands from touching Alexander in some way, _it had been so long since someone had touched Grantaire._

 

“We talked, I told you, it is fine.” Alexander said, stroking a finger across R’s lips and leaning down to kiss him chastely. 

 

“Indeed, don’t stop on our account.” 

 

They stopped and looked towards the door, where Enjolras, John, and Lafayette were standing. Lafayette had an eye brow raised, John’s mouth was almost touching the floor it was open so wide, and Enjolras was staring at Grantaire, his pupils blown so wide, that there not a hint of blue visible in them. He took one, two, three steps before Grantaire met him in the middle of the room (Alexander having got off him and sat to the side, pushing Grantaire up as he did so). 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Getting closer and closer to the barricades, comment and kudos to keep your favourite alive.


	8. Suis-moi dans l’obscurité.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Just the boys, a bed, and some loving. Slightly nsfw? Perhaps this is where the M rating is needed? John and R bond over a mutual love of art, Enjolras, Alexander, and Lafayette.

Enjolras kissed slowly, taking his time, using his hands to see as his eyes drifted shut. He touched every part of Grantaire’s face he could reach, his fingers drifted over his cheeks, danced through his hair and stroked along his jawline. Their noses brushed as Grantaire grew impatient, he deepened the kiss with practised ease, something Enjolras was not expecting; he gasped in surprise, his hands flying from Grantaire’s cheeks to his head and waist, drawing them closer together. R’s lips were warm, and wet and more than a little bruised from his heated kisses with Alexander, though Enjolras didn't mind as he bruised them yet more. Grantaire moved his hands to the back of Enjolras’s neck, pulling him in deeper and closer, as he played with the baby hairs that curled and thinned there. Enjolras had to lean over Grantaire slightly; like he did with Alexander, though Grantaire was taller than Alex by quite a long way. Their hips were pressed together, so the only thing separating them was their clothes; he could practically feel the heat and lust emanating from R as he stroked along his hipbone. 

 

Grantaire was relentless, his mouth moved over Enjolras, tasting and taking everything Enjolras had to give him. His hands moved quickly, first they were at his cheeks, thumbs stroking over the bone; then they were tangled in his hair, tugging on it.

 

“Perhaps, we should move this to the bedroom?” A hushed voice spoke in Enjolras’s ear, he felt hands on his shoulders. Enjolras broke the kiss and looked behind him, Alexander stood there, his face red; his irises blown so much that there was little colour left in them. Enjolras turned to look back at R, he was panting and his eyes were wide, Enjolras stroked a finger down R’s cheek.

 

“Do you permit it?” He asked, leaning forward and whispering in R’s ear. 

 

“Yes,” R croaked, the word flying out of his mouth without him even thinking about it. 

 

Without a second to spare him a breath, Enjolras was picking him up and carrying him to the bedroom, his legs wrapped around Enjolras’s waist as he clung on for dear life. He buried his face in to Enjolras’s shoulder, letting himself breath in the oaky scent of woodsmoke and the more floral smells of Enjolras’s cologne. He took the moments he had to collect himself and gather his thoughts and emotions. 

 

“Do you want Lafayette and John tojoin us? They don’t have to. We don’t have to do anything you don’t want to do-“ 

 

“It’s okay, Enjy, it’s okay,” Grantaire laughed slightly, stroking his fingers through Enjolras’s hair, tugging on the end of one blond curl.“They can come too. I want to get to know all of you.”

 

Lafayette looked at John, who’d had his eyes focussed on Grantaire, his pupils wide and pink lips parted. A blush had spread across his freckled cheeks, turning them red, the flush had actually spread down past the collar of his next tie. He was entirely focussed on R and Enjolras, like there was nothing else in the world. His breaths were coming in heavy and fast, in and out through the gap in his lips; his chest was heaving up and down. 

 

“Are they willing?” Enjolras raised an eyebrow at Lafayette and John. 

 

“But, of course,” Lafayette grinned and started moving towards the bedroom, long coat swishing round his knees. 

 

“Uh, yeah,” John grunted, he always seemed to go quiet when things seemed to be headed to the bedroom. 

 

They stumbled through the apartment; feet catching on the corners of the walls and on each other’s abandoned clothes. The windows were open and a breeze danced through them, disturbing the curtains as they hung open. They tripped over bits of upturned carpet and floorboard nails that stuck up through the wood. The haphazard group fell through the doorway, and quickly realised that Parisian doorways were not built for five people, so they fell through the door and in to the colder room; here there was no fire and their breath was slightly visible in the air. 

 

Instead of going to straight to the bed, however, John grabbed a sketch book and a piece of charcoal and sat in the chair Enjolras usually piled all his dirty clothes on. He sat with his feet curled under him, using his knees to prop the sketch book on; this didn't go unnoticed by Alexander, who quirked an eyebrow at him and walked over to straighten John’s neck tie. 

 

“Not today?” He asked voice holding no negative emotions, just a simple curiousness. 

 

“Nah,” John smiled and tucked a curl of Alexander’s hair behind his ears, “changed my mind.”

 

“Make sure you make us all pretty,” Alex said, leaning forward and kissing John chastely on the nose. 

 

“I just draw what I see, so you’ll all be gods,” John leant in to Alex’s touch as he ruffled his hair. 

 

“Feel free to join, if you change your mind again,” Alex winked and turned back to face the bed.

 

R sat cross legged against the head board, on top of the pillows,his eyes were wide; he looked more confused than anything else. He was turning from side to side, watching as Alex pressed a kiss to Lafayette’s lips and stroked a hand through Enjolras’s hair. The only sound in the room, save for breathing, was the noise of John’s coal as it moved across the page. He jumped on to the bed, nearly landing on R’s lap, cursing inwardly that he didn’t, and looked up at him. 

 

“Are you okay?” He asked, looking straight in to Grantaire’s eyes.

 

“Yes, I’m just… There are about four more people in this room, than I thought would ever want me,” he said, waving his hands at himself, as if that explained everything. “I’m just… me. I’m not… like all of you.”

 

Four pairs of eyes turned to him in shock. Lafayette moved closer to sit to one side of Grantaire, being careful not to fall off the bed, he took a handful of Grantaire’s long, curly hair in his hands and started working his fingers through it. He gently separated it in to three sections and began to braid it. 

 

“You think you are not special,” Lafayette whispered, combing his fingers through the waves, “but you haven’t seen the way your eyes look in candlelight. I would argue they’re just as beautiful as Alexander’s and John will tell you that I was caught up in his for nearly thirty years. You think you’re not special but I know your voice has got as many crowds cheering as Enjolras’s has, perhaps more. You think you’re not special but I heard Joly and Jehan talking about your artwork last night, they said it was some of the best they’ve seen. Now, I may not have known you for very long, but I know when someone is special; besides, even if you were not, you are kind and good, and why would we not want someone like that?”

 

Grantaire’s eyes fluttered shut, he leant in to the touch, his tense shoulders relaxed muscle by muscle. Enjolras caught on quick enough and moved over to Grantaire’s other side, running his fingers over R’s shoulders and down his back. Standing on his knees, Enjolras leaned forward and placed chaste kisses to the side of Grantaire’s neck and face. Alexander got on to his knees as well, following Enjolras’s lead; looking intently at Grantaire to see any signs of hesitation or discomfort, he pressed their lips together for a second time, taking each moment to learn Grantaire’s mouth. Alex ran his hands down the front of Grantaire’s chest slowly; undoing his waist coat, letting it fall off R’s shoulders. He moved his hands up to undo R’s neck tie, slowly, feeling each undulation of his partner’s body, learning it and mapping out it’s unique topography. 

 

“Wait,” Grantaire took Alex’s hands in his own, “can we slow down? It’s not that I don’t want to, I do, it’s just-“

 

“Of course,” Alex took his hands away from R, and sat back enough to give him some space; the others did the same. 

 

“This is just three times the attention I ever anticipated,” Grantaire, looked between them all, the look on his face was one of awe and bliss. 

 

“But it is no more than the attention you deserve,” Lafayette smiled, “do you want to continue? If you want, you could go and sit with John and talk about art, or you could sit here and watch us?” 

 

“Art?” Grantaire looked up, seeing John curled in the chair, sketch book propped on his knee. “You’re drawing this?”

 

“I can stop, if you’d like, or just draw the others,” John smiled, and stopped drawing, charcoal still held in a hand that was rapidly turning black. 

 

“No, no it’s fine, I’d like to see is all. I haven’t spoken to another artist in so long,” R grinned and hopped off the bed. 

 

“Come and have a look. You can have a page, if you want,” John said, tipping the sketch book so Grantaire could see. 

 

The drawing is exquisite, Grantaire sat in the middle, lips parted in a way that made himself blush. His waistcoat hung off his shoulders, giving just the barest hint of the shape of his body. Lafayette’s hands wound around stands of his hair, he could feel the plait he had created on the side of his head, they were long and graceful and seemed to move on the page. On his other side was Enjolras, cloaked in shadow from where John was sitting, only the side of his face was visible; yet Grantaire knew it so well he could pick out features, John had drawn Enjolras with delicate stroke and he looked more valuable than the finest marble. Lying on his back, in front of R was Alexander, his hair fanned out like a halo, the ends of it flicking up off the page in small stokes. 

 

“This is truly what we looked like?” Grantaire asked, turning confused eyes at John. 

 

“Aye, this is what you looked like to me,” John smiled, and took the book back. “Sit, watch them. I find you can learn a lot about a person by watching the way he loves another.” 

 

So he turned his attention to the three men on the bed in front of him; he could feel all his previous overwhelming feelings receding every second. They were bathed in the soft orange light from the candles John had lit; Alexander was in Lafayette’s lap, Enjolras was behind him kissing down the column of Alex’s neck. 

 

“I couldn’t bother you for a sheet of paper?” Grantaire croaked at John, sitting on the floor and leaning against John’s legs, which had come down from the chair to provide him with the perfect backrest.

 

“Of course,” John said, handing him a sheet and a stick of charcoal. 

 

Grantaire has never seen anything like what’s going on on the bed, if he could have it permanently embedded in to his brain he would. If he could look at it every day for the rest of his life, he would. He wanted it to last forever, though he didn't feel the need to be a part of it. Every now and then, John reached down and touched him on the shoulder for them to compare work, as if John just wanted to remind him that he was there. He was content to draw, leaning on John’s legs feeling their warmth soaking in to him; watching his new found family having what seemed like a good time. 

 

“Can we cuddle now?” A sleepy voice sounded from underneath Lafayette.

 

“Cuddles sound good,” Enjolras yawned, “are you guys going to join or do you want to sleep somewhere else?”

 

John looked down at Grantaire, who shrugged and put down the charcoal and paper he was using; he brushed off his hands and stood, ignoring his aching knees. He stripped out of his shirt and trousers, pointedly ignoring everyone else’s gaze, and jumped under the covers, snuggling next to the nearest warm body, feeling the cold air rush in when John slid in beside him. 

 

“Alex?” A whisper came from out of the dark.

 

“Yes?” Alex whispered back, his voice was so close to R, that it must have been him that he was pressed against.

 

“Tell me about your revolution, the one you three were in,” it must have been Enjolras who was breaking the silence in the room.

 

“Always talk of revolution,” Grantaire muttered, rolling on to his back, slinging his arm across John’s stomach. 

 

“Hush,” John muttered in his ear, “I think I am the best for talking about the revolution, I’ve all the best stories about our old Hammie here.” John said louder this time. 

 

“John does seem to store every embarrassing moment in his head,” Lafayette giggled slightly. 

 

Alexander wriggled and moved, like he couldn't lie still, even though his brain wasn't spinning like a top, his body was determined to. He would not keep still for more than few seconds, before he was moving again; Grantaire tried to keep calm, but he really needed to relax. Not even the calm tones of John’s voice calmed him enough to forget about Alex’s moving. Not to mention, that trying to fit five of them all on one bed, was just not realistic, in Grantaire’s opinion. 

 

“I don’t know about anyone else, but, it’s a little too cosy for me to be uh,” John broke off after a few minutes, “I am nearly off the edge.”

 

“I agree,” Lafayette said, “I do not wish to spend a night on the floor.”

 

“We could try moving Alexander’s bed in here and pushing them together?” Enjolras said, sitting up, in doing so he moved the covers off everyone and let cold air into the bed. 

 

“Considering we struggled to fit through the door, I doubt we’re getting a whole bed through one.” Grantaire grunted. “It would make much more sense to just move the mattresses in to the living and sleep out there, I reckon the fire’s still going.”

 

They spent the next half an hour or so freezing whilst trying to heave the two mattresses in to the living room; lucking the door ways were just about tall enough to fit them in. The living room was designed to function as two rooms, so it had space enough for the mattresses to be placed side by side. The fire was still burning slightly, giving out jus enough heat so that this room was warmer than the bedrooms. They fell on to the mattresses, hot and sweaty after heaving the heavy straw ticks and feather topping through the doorways and across the hall. 

 

“I have never been so glad that we saved for feather mattresses in my life,” Enjolras sighed as he burrowed in to the five blankets and thick featherbed. 

 

“I can’t believe you both have featherbeds,” John grinned into R’s shoulder, “I last slept on a featherbed back in the last century.”

 

“Well, what do you sleep on then?” Alexander said, sitting up and staring at John in shock.

 

“Uh, well, I sleep on a straw tick and my brother and sister usually just sleep on me or something,” he muttered, wriggling slightly uncomfortably. 

 

“I do not wish to spoil the uh, party, but we have class tomorrow and I’d rather not fall asleep in lessons,” Lafayette sighed, “besides aren’t you working for Joly tomorrow, John?”

 

“Oh yeah,” John smiled, R could feel his lips move against his bare shoulder, “I forgot about that.”

 

The moon light shone through the curtains none of them had bothered to close, they could hear the faint sounds that echoed from the street below, the clip clop of horses hooves and the rattling of cab’s wheels. The floorboards below them creaked as the house settled in to its place. The fire crackled into embers and the embers burnt out as the night wore on, the moon rose and fell and in its place rose the sun. The sky outside turning a pinky red, though they slept on, entangled in a web of legs, arms, and warmth. They shielded each other from the cold tendrils of morning air that would steal across their faces and take their sleep from them. Birds tweeted outside in greeting of the morning, and yet the five slept, each pressed against the other, no gaps visible in their entanglement. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yeah. Idek about this chapter??? ?? ? I hope it works. Enjoy. Like always kudos and comments keep characters alive.


	9. Une journée d'été tue.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Okay! Some trigger warnings this chapter, toward the end there is a character death (minor) and there is also a fairly graphic depiction of the wound this character received; so if that triggers you skip from the words "John *****'s hurt" to the end! Anyway, here is the start of the barricades then, prepare for pain and then more pain to come!!

The morning dawned, hot and bright, several months had passed since the first night they’d spent tangled together in a heap; days and weeks moving by them in a whirl of late nights and busy days. June came upon them in a burst of heat, days lengthened, the sun hanging hot a round in the sky before it would bleed red in to the night. The nights were short, hot an humid; John had taken to curling up on the threadbare carpet instead of the feather mattresses, complaining that he was too hot to do anything but lie there spread out like a starfish. Alexander, who had twice grown up in the heat, laughed at John, who, this time, had grown up in the colder conditions around Montfermeil, was not used to such heat that permeated the city. The trees had their leaves back and Paris was lined with greenery, birds danced in between them and flew through the blue skies as the sun beat its heat upon bone dry pavements. The Seine, that had flown fast and free in damp, cold winter, now left its banks dry and empty, as it crawled lazily along. Where, in the parks, the grass had been green, it was now a dry brown colour. The newspapers said it would be the hottest June anyone alive had seen; the heat had been building since late May, it would only get worse. 

 

Enjolras stood in the upstairs room of the Musain, gazing out of the window, framed in sunlight; his hair glowed in a circlet of gold around him. Like a glorious hero of old, he stood and looked out upon his army, not that the Les Amis were really an army. The cafe was full, and bustling with people; John, Alexander, and Lafayette were pouring over a map that was spread out on a table in the left hand corner, the others were running around fetching guns and rounds. Jehan was sewing a large red flag to a pole he had stolen from his art class. John had brought his little brother, Gavroche in with him; he had been running around getting under everyone’s toes, until Grantaire had taken him in his arms and swooped around with the little boy hanging off him like a monkey. They were sitting on a beaten up sofa, Grantaire was teaching Gavroche to read, just like John did whenever he was home. Enjolras leant backwards on the sill, baking his weight against the slightly rotten wood. He watched the scene before him, feeling joy bubble up in his chest. The revolution he had hoped for all his life, since he found out about the corruption, was happening; the people would rise up for them and they would be bathed in righteous glory. Or they would die. He shook the thought from his head, who ever heard of a summer’s day killing anyone? Combeferre ran in, soaked in sweat, his coat dragging on the floor behind him; he startled Enjolras out of his day dream. 

 

“At Notre Dame the sections are prepared!” He shouted over, when he caught sight of Enjolras, “this happening, Enjy, the very thing we dreamed of! I can feel it in my bones, we’re going to make a real change this time.”

 

“Of course we are brother. Tell everything you know to Lafayette, Alexander, and John.” He said, nodding to where the three men were placing miniature barricades on a map. 

 

“At rue de Bac they’re straining at the leash! Something has to happen soon or we’ll have riots; not revolutions on our hands,” Feuilly came tearing in after Combeferre, sweat and dust coating his face as he looked for Enjolras. 

 

“Something’s happening soon, I can feel it, not long now,” Enjolras moved from the window to clasp Feuilly’s shoulder. “Worry not, something’s happening soon.” He paused, looking round the cafe, “have you seen Marius, today?” 

 

“No, not today, not yet,” Feuilly said, shaking his head and moving to sit next to Bahorel and Musichetta. 

 

“Alex!” Enjolras moved over to the map, “have you noticed- Marius! You’re late.”

 

“You look like you’ve seen a ghost, Marius, sit down,” Jehan ran over to Marius, who walked in white faced and almost trembling, a sort of manic gleam in his eyes. 

 

“Pontmercy! Have some wine and tell us everything you’ve seen,” Grantaire said moving over, Gavroche on his back, until he passed him off to John, who took his little brother on his shoulders. 

 

“A ghost? More like the most beautiful girl ever,” Marius sighed, resting his chin on his hand and taking the bottle Grantaire handed him. 

 

“Can it be? Is Marius fawning over some pretty girl? Our Marius? In love at last?” Grantaire laughed, spinning Enjolras around, “Here we are, planning the greatest revolution Paris has ever seen, and there he is hooked on some pretty thing. My god, man it’s better than an opera!” 

 

“No more of this talk! Now is the time we’ve been waiting for, or have you all just been following us around for a laugh?” Alexander said, standing on a nearby table; ignoring Laf’s grabbing hand, “Are going to fight for the right to see goddamned opera? Or is this just going to turn into another college boys’ joke? Is this all a game?”

 

“Alexander, get off the table,” Grantaire said, looking up at him, all the jokiness drained from him. 

 

“Had you seen her there tonight you might know how it feels, to be struck to the bone in a moment of breathless delight-“

 

“Marius, I know you’re oblivious but-“ Jehan began, looking at Marius in shock.

 

“How could you miss-“ Courfeyrac gasped, breaking out in an uncontrollable fit of giggles. 

 

“Really, Pontmercy, you didn't notice?” Combeferre said, rolling his eyes.

 

“Notice what?” Marius said, looking around at the rest of them, who were all staring at him in a mixture of shock and scandal. 

 

“We’re together, we know what it’s like, Marius.” Enjolras barked out a short laugh, helping Alexander off the table. 

 

“You two… you’re together?” Marius stared at them in shock.

 

“Uh, yeah, make that the five of us, Pontmercy. While you were off mooning after whoever you have just fallen in love with, we got together.”

 

Marius fell out of his chair, “I never thought I’d see the day where Enjolras admitted he was in love with you and Grantaire,” he said from the floor, looking up at them a smile stretched over his cheeks.

 

“This really is better than an opera,” Joly muttered, his eyes brimming with mirth.

 

“Enough, of this!” Enjolras sighed, rolling his eyes, “it is time for us all to decide who we are, no more games, no more jokes. We’ve a revolution to win. We just need the sign, then Paris will rise to our side. Well? Do we have enough guns Courf? Come one, our time is running out, R please, put that bottle down.”

 

“Give me brandy on my breath; I’ll breath em all to death!” Grantaire said, stretching out his arms and leaning in to tick Gavroche who let out a high pitched yell and leapt off John’s shoulders straight at R, who cough him and pretended to eat him. 

 

“If I wasn’t sold on that man already, I damned would be now. I haven’t been able to make Gav laugh like that in years,” John sighed, “if only I could find Éponine-“

 

“You’ve lost her?” Lafayette asked, placing a hand on John’s shoulders, turning him around so that they faced each other.

 

“Aye, I know she goes off on her own a lot, but I thought she’d be hanging around here. Or I thought she would have gone home sometime in the last two weeks,” John leant his head against Lafayette’s shoulder, “I hope she’s okay, she’s only seventeen and a girl alone as well.”

 

“From what you’ve told me about her, she’ll be just fine, just you wait and see. When the new world rises from the ashes, she’ll be by our side,” Lafayette smiled and kissed John lightly, stroking a hand through his hair. 

 

“I know she will,” John smiled up a Lafayette. “I know she will.” 

 

“My boys,” Alexander walked up to them, “once more into the valley of death, then?” He grinned, and held out a hand for each of them.

 

“As long as I have you two by my side, Enjolras and Grantaire at my back, I would march for the gates of hell,” Lafayette grinned, “it has been too long since I last faced death and won.”

 

“I have missed watching death fly past me,” John took Alex’s hand, “just like old times.”

 

“To Washington!” Alexander held out a drink, “to freedom! To liberty!”

 

“To Hercules!’ Lafayette added as they drank down their wine. 

 

“Aye, to Hercules,” John smiled, wiping his mouth on the sleeve of his shirt, it was one of Alexander’s old ones, they’d mended the buttons on them, but Alexander had been taken with wearing Lafayette’s finer shirts than the old type he used to wear. John had realised this and had stolen all of Alex’s old shirts; with them he’d mended a lot of his sibling’s clothes, but he had saved two for himself to wear as they were nicer than anything he’d had in a long time. 

 

A young boy stood in the doorway, he darted forward as he spotted Gavroche, who was running about trying to muscle in on the action. Gavroche stopped as he approached, turning to the lad, who whispered in his ear. Gavroche’s whole body seemed to droop, he hugged the boy and ran to John, tugging on his brother’s shirt sleeve. 

 

“John,” he tugged, “John!” he tugged again, “John!” he shouted.

 

“What is it, Gav?” John knelt so he was level with Gavroche.

 

“General Lamarque is dead,” Gavroche said, his eyes brimming with tears. 

 

“Lamarque?” John whispered, standing up, picking Gavroche up and putting him on his shoulders. “Enjy.”

 

“John? Are you alight?” Enjolras turned to see John’s pale face, he cupped his cheek, turning his head from side to side, “perhaps you should go and sit down?”

 

“No, love, I’m fine.” John waved a hand and took Enjolras’s hand from his cheek, “Enjy, Lamarque is dead.”

 

“No.” Enjolras croaked, “it can’t be. Lamarque?”

 

“Theo just told me,” Gavroche leant forward, to move in closer to Enjolras, even though he was perched on John’s shoulders. 

 

“Lamarque is dead,” Alexander and Lafayette had followed John over to Enjolras when they’d seen him rush over there. Alexander stood leaning in to Lafayette, as the taller strung an arm of his shoulders. 

 

“Yes, Lamarque is dead,” John nodded. 

 

“Wait,” Enjolras said, the light of rebellion coming back and filling the void that had been there, “his death could be the sign we’ve been waiting for.”

 

“Enjy, what do you mean?” Lafayette leaned forward, a grin starting to appear. 

 

“R! R! Get over here,” John called, Grantaire over from where he’d been laughing with Jehan.

 

“Yes?” said R, looking at them all.

 

“General Lamarque’s dead,” Alexander told him. 

 

“Shit,” Grantaire looked at Enjolras, “wait, I know that look, what’re you planning?” 

 

“He was the people’s man, everyone knew him; they loved him, so, on his funeral day they will honour his name. Think of it, it’s a rallying cry that will reach every ear! That, is where the flame will be kindled, the people will see their salvation is near.” With that, he stood on the table, and shouted to the Amis, his arms raised like the Roman emperors of old. “Friends, the time is near, welcome it gladly with no doubts in our hearts, the people of Paris will rise and join us. They will come when we call!”

 

There was a chorus of shouts and cheers, Lafayette, and Courfeyrac picked Enjolras up off the table and paraded him around the room; Alexander, John, and Grantaire following behind waving their red flag behind them. The rest of the Les Amis cheering them on, Gavroche on John’s shoulders grasping at their outstretched hands. The cafe’s walls were lined with guns and boxes of rounds, there were planks and larger bits of wood for help with building the barricade; only a few tables and chairs remained intact, the rest of them had been chopped up. 

 

“Back to work! Only one day more!” Enjolras shouted, laughing as he was pitched head first on to the sofa, Alexander had other ideas; he sat on top of Enjolras pressing their foreheads together. 

 

“Julien,” he said, “whatever happens tomorrow-“

 

“Alexander, hush, it’s going to be fine. The people of Paris _will_ rise, it’s time,” Julien smiled, and brushed a strand of Alexander’s wayward hair behind his ear. 

 

“But, listen, whatever happens, I want you to know that even if we aren’t soulmates, I think of you as one.” Alexander looked at Enjolras, his eyes full of emotion, he brushed his thumb along Enjy’s cheekbone; cupping his face as he brought their lips together in a chaste kiss. 

 

“I love you,” Enjolras mumbled against his lips, “I love you so much. I love you all so much.” He said, looking behind Alexander at the other three who stood there holding hands. 

 

They decided to stay in the cafe that night, the rest of the Les Amis came in and out as the night wore on. Joly, Combeferre, and John had their heads bent together as they sorted out their medical supplies; they were placed carefully in a box, that was labelled and put to the side of the room. Grantaire and Alexander sat tangled together on the sofa, their legs so intertwined it was impossible for anyone to see where one ended and the other began. Grantaire looked around the room, as the only people he cared about ran about planning a revolution that he was sure he was going to die in.

 

“At least, if we do die, we’ll all die together, no one’s going to be alone.” Alexander mumbled into his hair. 

 

“Hmm,” Grantaire hummed as Alexander ran his fingers through the tangles in his curly hair. “We wont die.” 

 

“That’s the first time you’ve showed any faith in this,” Alexander looked down to catch R’s eye, “Ranae?” he said, but R was already asleep, his breath huffing in and out a small smile on his face. 

 

“Has he had enough water? He’s had a bit to drink,” John said, walking over to them looking down at R.

 

“Yeah, I made him have a glass or two before he dropped off,” Alex smiled, and looked up at John.

 

***

 

The barricade soared in to the sky, bits of wood stuck out at all angles; it was made of beds, chairs, planks, and tables had all been sacrificed to make the towering structure. The sun was rising between the buildings of the Rue de Villette, red light streaked the clouds and bled in to the blue. Jehan sat, propped on one of the boxes, notebook in hand; his head was tipped up and he watched the sun as it rose. 

 

“You’ve seen things like this before,” he said, looking at Lafayette who was checking the ammunition. 

 

“Battles? Yes. Anything like this? No.” Lafayette smiled grimly, and sat on the box next to Jehan, “I shouldn’t worry too much, Enjolras and Alexander have thought of just about everything.”

 

“I have every faith in them,” Jehan smiled, “I just-“

 

“I know, stick with me, you’ll be fine,” he placed a hand on Jehan’s shoulder and squeezed slightly. 

 

“Thank you, Lafayette. You knew Lamarque, didn’t you?” Jehan asked, turning around to look at him. 

 

“Very briefly, when he was a young man and I was visiting Paris on behalf of Washington,” Lafayette nodded.

 

“What was he like? I mean as equals?” Jehan asked.

 

“He was a good man, a lot of people didn’t like him, but he was a good man,” Lafayette faced Jehan properly, “why?”

 

“No real reason, I suppose, I just wanted know,” Jehan shrugged, “I should let you get on, Enjolras’ll be on your case no doubt.”

 

John stared at the boy, from his perch on the window sill in the cafe, he had a dirty cap covering half of his face; he was short, shorter than Jehan who was walking past him. The boy was lifting boxes on top of the barricade, John couldn't shake off the feeling that he was familiar. 

 

“R, have you seen that boy around here before?” He asked Grantaire, grabbing the other’s arm and pulling him to the window.

 

“Can’t say I have,” R shrugged and ruffled John’s hair, pressing a kiss to his skull before he wandered away to Enjolras. 

 

“He looks familiar,” John muttered, “wait.” The boy’s hat had come off slightly, revealing more of the face beneath it. “Alexander!” John yelled. 

 

“Yes?” Alex came over. 

 

“Alex, it’s Éponine. Éponine is down there; I have to go, I have to get her out of there,” John said, standing and grabbing hold of Alex’s jacket, “she’s seventeen, Alex, I can’t let her fight.”

 

“I know, I know. Let’s go. We’ll go together, you and me; we’ll get her out of here,” Alexander said, pulling John to the door. 

 

They ran down the rickety, crooked stairs that lead out of the upstairs room of the cafe; and into the street below where the barricade was still rising fast. More and more bits of wood had been piled on the top of the barricade so now it was at least two stories high. Without warning Jehan, who’d climbed to the top, shouted out. 

 

“Soldiers advancing towards the barricades! Fifty men or more!” He jumped down from plank to plank and landed in front of Alexander. 

 

“Everyone to you positions!” Alexander shouted, “Enjolras!” 

 

“Aye?” Enjolras had come thundering down the stairs, followed by the rest of the men who had been in the cafe. 

 

“Soldiers approaching the barricades, fifty or more!” Alex yelled at him.

 

“Right,” Enjolras’s face took on a determined look; his eyes hardened and he grabbed on to a pole and swung himself on to the barricade. “The fight for our freedom has just begun, let us defend this barricade to the last man! Let it not be said again that the people cannot change the world!”

 

“You at the barricade listen to this! No one is coming to help you to fight! You’re on you own, you have no friends; give up your guns or die!” A voice ricocheted through the street, the Les Amis looked at each other and then back to Enjolras who stood against the barricade a look of righteous anger plastered on his face. 

 

“Damn their warnings! Damn their lies! They will see the people rise! We are not alone, friends, Paris will rise!” He shouted, waving the flag Lafayette had just handed him. “Positions my friends; prepare for the first attack!” 

 

John and Alexander fought through the tide of people that was converging on the barricade, they had been about ten meters from John’s sister; now though, they could no longer see her. She had fallen in to the surge of boys and had disappeared. Perhaps she had seen John running for her and decided to hide from him, in order to fight; Alexander didn't know, but he knew the barricade was no place for a child. They had sent Gavroche home earlier, before the barricade had been built; John had relaxed a great deal after that, knowing that his brother would be safe through the fighting. There was a volley of shots, their stark, deadly sounds echoing up the street and hitting the barricade a full force; no one fell, not this time, every one had ducked at the right time. They could see Enjolras standing right at the top of the barricade, the sun like a halo behind him as he cheered on the boys; laughing in a sort of maniacal way as he waved the flag and shot at the National Guard with a pistol. They searched through the crowds looking for Éponine, as volley after volley of shots rained down upon them; every now and then, they would look up to make sure their lovers were okay, once they had they would return to the search.

 

“She’ll be okay, John, I swear.” Alexander said, every time they saw a boy fall from the barricade. 

 

They found no sign of her. They searched and searched, even as the sun came down in a flash of pink and orange; but there was no sign of a boy in a brown cap. Rain started to fall in little drops, small rivulets breaking the heat of the day. They looked on their face’s streaked now, with mud, sweat, and rain. There were plenty of wounded, and already some had died, though it seemed all their friends were alright; they passed Joly who was running back and forth with needles, and bandages. 

 

“Ponine!” John shouted, “Ponine!” 

 

“John?” The word was croaked from somewhere to their left, where a small hollow had been carved out of the barricade.

 

“Ponine? Thank god, you’re okay,” John said, pulling his sister out from under the barricade, “Ponine, what are you doing here, this is no place for a child.”

 

“‘M not a child Jacque,” Éponine mumbled, curling into John. 

 

“John…” Alexander gasped and point to the blooming red patch on Éponine’s shirt. “John, she’s hurt.”

 

“No.” John said, as Éponine doubled over, blood pouring down her front; and out of her mouth. She coughed and tried to talk. “Hush, hush it’s okay, it’s going to be okay. Alexander please-“

 

“Joly! Joly! Ferre! Someone!” Alexander shouted as he crouched down beside John, balling up his waistcoat and pressing down on the rapidly growing red patch.

 

“Ponine,” John cried, his face was red and tears were pouring down his cheeks, “Ponine stay with me, look at me; only at me, okay.”

 

“Jacque, Jacque, I’m sorry, please,” Éponine’s breaths were chocking and looked painful, as she fought for her life, “tell, tell Gav I love him; give him a kiss and a hug from me.” Her eyes were glassing over with pain or with something else, something no one there could see. 

 

“Ponine, no, no, Ponine, don’t go; don’t go, Ponine, look at me,” John said, brushing her hair, that had fallen out of the cap, back off her forehead. “That’s it, look at me.”

 

“Alexander,” Joly said, softly, pulling Alex up and looking at him in the eye, “Alexander, we can’t- there’s nothing-“

 

“There has to be _something;_ there has to be something you can do,” Alexander pleaded, grabbing Joly’s arms. 

 

“This isn’t something, that people survive; even if we could stop the bleeding and repair her organs, she’d likely only survive a few more days, she’d end up with a fever and that would kill her. Alex, there’s nothing I can do, I’m sorry,” Joly said, squeezing Alex’s shoulder and stepping back.

 

“No. No.” Alex shook his head and knelt down by John again, stroking his hand through John’s hair, “Joly, _please._ ”

 

“I’m sorry,” Joly called, running over to treat another boy, who’d bee shot in the leg. 

 

“Not like this,” John was whispering into Éponine’s hair, “she’s seventeen, Alexander, _seventeen,_ ” he had picked her up and was cradling her in his lap, like he had done whens she’d been ill as a child. “Éponine?” He whispered, but she did not respond. 

 

No more breaths wracked her body; her eyes were closed as the rain fell down around them, it mixed with the blood that stained Éponine’s shirt, diluting it and making it almost as though it wasn't there. John’s body convulsed with sobs as he held her to his chest, rocking her backwards and forwards like a babe. Alexander couldn't see his tears for the rain, but he knew there would be many and they would be pouring down his face. Alex had seen John cry once, when Phillip had been shot, when Alexander had held his son in his arms as he’d died; but, it hadn't been like this. This was something Alex had never thought he’d see from John, an animalistic side of grief. John’s eyes were red as he looked up at Alex. He took great shuddering breaths, as though breathing was hard for him now that his sister no longer could. 

 

“She was seventeen,” he whispered, “it’s my fault. I didn’t get to her quick enough.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Lol yeah if you thought this was painful just you wait till next time!! Kudos and comments keep me writing and might make the next update come sooner!


	10. Burn the white flag.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Okay, lemme explain what’s going to happen here. Right, so I have written two endings to this fic, one (this one) is super sad and super graphic; the other is going to have a happy ending. This means you can choose whether or not you want a happy ending or a sad ending (or both). 
> 
> So TRIGGER WARNING THERE IS GRAPHIC DEPICTIONS OF VIOLENCE, MAIN CHARACTER DEATH, AND BLOOD IN THIS CHAPTER. Enjoy!

They lifted Éponine's all too small body on their shoulders, carrying her carefully away from the barricade. They laid her behind the bar in the cafe, a blanket was draped over her, covering her. John sat in the same spot, though he was being rocked back and forth himself. Alexander held him in his arms whispering to him about nothing, telling him stories about his childhood, trying to distract him. John didn't stop crying; he didn't stop gasping for breath. Lafayette stood over them, partially blocking them from view, Alexander moved so he was leaning against Laf’s strong legs. Rain still poured down over them; it washed away the blood that had puddled on the street, the water made the cobbles look like new. John sat in Alexander’s arms, resting his head against his shoulder; their legs intwined. Alex reached up with one hand and caught Lafayette’s sleeve, tugging on it he pulled Laf down to their level and let the larger man scoop John up like a baby and carry him inside. 

 

“Alexander,” he felt a hand on his shoulder, and craned his neck up to see Grantaire. 

 

“R,” Alex whispered. “Why her?”

 

“Death, unfortunately, does not care whom he takes,” Grantaire said, catching Alexander under his arms and pulling him up so he was standing. “Come on, you’re going to get soaked through lying there.” 

 

“I- I’ve condemned us all to death,” Alexander gasped, his eyes widening and dimming, their usual light seeming to face. 

 

“No, no you haven’t. The people may rise yet, and there are the other barricades, do not lose hope so quickly,” Grantaire drew Alexander in to his chest, resting his chin on the top of Alex’s head, “we’ll be okay, we’ll make it through.” Alex felt the words more than he heard them, he was nestled in the warmth of Grantaire’s chest. 

 

“We’re the last barricade left,” Enjolras said, stepping in to their line of view. 

 

“What?” Feuilly asked, his face dropping and turning white. 

 

“It can’t be, there has to be more, we can’t be the only one left,” Joly grabbed Bossuet’s hand, tightly, holding on so that his fingers turned red. 

 

“The others?” Courfeyrac asked, looking up from where he was helping Combeferre patch up a boy’s leg. 

 

“Dead,” Enjolras choked, “all of them dead.” 

 

“All of you who want to leave, go now, and let you not think of yourselves as cowards,” Alexander said, surfacing from under Grantaire’s chin, he moved to stand beside Enjolras, lacing their fingers together; Grantaire joined on Enjolras’s other side. 

 

“We’ve come so far,” Bahorel shrugged, “makes no sense to run away now.” 

 

“I agree,” Combeferre stood and walked over to Enjolras, “we’re going to fight, always for our cause.” 

 

“’til the last man!” Joly cried, looking up at the black sky that was still raining heavily upon them. 

 

“I need a drink,” Bahorel sighed, standing and walking in to the cafe, only to come out a few minutes later carrying bottles; Lafayette at his side also carrying a few bottles. 

 

“John?” Alexander asked, squeezing Laf’s shoulder, and taking the proffered bottle.

 

“He’s asleep.” Lafayette sighed, “he’s lost so much. This lifetime has not been kind to him.”

 

“Like the last one was,” Alexander raised an eyebrow, “we died at forty nine.”

 

“Aye, but it seems this time we’ll die at twenty four,” Lafayette smiled grimly, sitting down on a crate. 

 

“We found the other two, though,” this time a real smile graced Alex’s face, as he watched Enjolras and Grantaire as they sat next to each other, talking softly, their heads bent close together, “maybe, that’s why we were sent here. To this time, I mean, we wouldn’t have been sent here if there was no purpose.” 

 

“Perhaps. What makes you so sure they’re truly our soulmates?” Laf turned to face Alex, properly, he had a long cut down the side of his face; it was oozing blood slowly down the front of his shirt. 

 

“I am not, but, if you’re right, we’ll soon find out.” Alexander shrugged, “even if they aren’t, I love them.”

 

“You’ve turned soft in this life, my friend,” Laf drew Alexander in to his arms. 

 

“Maybe, but I’m better for it,” Alexander said, turning to kiss Laf softly, chastely on the lips. 

 

“Hmmm,” Lafayette hummed happily, already too lost in Alexander to respond with any hint of coherence. 

 

“Alex!” Enjolras shouted, “Alexander!”

 

“Yes?” Alexander looked up to see Enjolras’s face panicked and white as he paced before them.

 

“Jehan’s gone,” Enjolras said, looking at Alex, eyes creased with worry.

 

“No. What?” Alex stood, Lafayette did as well, their hands found each other and squeezed. 

 

“Who noticed him missing?” Lafayette asked.

 

“Joly,” Enjolras groaned, “Joly said that he was there during the first attack; then he was gone, he didn't see where he went. I hope he ran away, I hope he’s home safe with his books and his poems.” Enjolras pretended not to notice the tear that worked its way down his cheek.

 

“Me too,” Alexander whispered, coming to stand with Enjolras, “I’m sure he’s-“

 

“Vive la revolution! Vive la France! Give me liberty, or give me death!” Jehan’s voice rang out across the street, Alexander climbed on top of the barricade; he crouched behind an old table, peaking his head out, he could see Jehan. 

 

“Jehan!” He shouted, but it was no use, Jehan had been caught in the arms of two of the National Guard, they held him as he struggled. “Jehan! No!” Alex shouted again, his voice cracking as he attempted to climb over the top of the barricade, someone grabbed his ankle and held him down, stopping him from moving. He looked down to shout at the man, but caught R’s eyes.

 

“Alex, don’t. You’ll die yourself,” R said, “you’ve more people than just yourself to think about.” 

 

“Jehan,” Alex croaked, as he stopped struggling. 

 

Three shots rang out. The silence after them came crashing down. Alexander didn't look up. He didn't need to. Jehan, good; kind; gentle, Jehan. They didn't even know where his body was. Jehan hadn't done anyone any harm, he’d been good and kind. Jehan had been the best part of them, the best of the Les Amis. Something, then, inside Alexander broke. Before, they’d had hope, before Alexander had had some naive hope that they’d make it out of the barricade alive; now though, now there was no hope. No light at the end of the tunnel. Alexander looked at his lovers and his friends, and thought that he’d gladly die with them. 

 

“Well, men, if I am to die tomorrow, then I am glad I die with you,” Grantaire spoke, his voice shaking, his eyes never leaving Alex’s face. 

 

“I’ll drink to that,” Courfeyrac said. 

 

“Raise a glass, then,” Combeferre linked his arm with Courf’s, “to freedom! To Jehan!” 

 

“We’ll make them pay for every man,” Enjolras nodded as he took a swig from the bottle Courfeyrac had handed him. “Courfeyrac, you take the watch, they won't attack until it’s light.” 

 

“John,” Alex said softly, taking Enjolras’s and R’s hands and following Lafayette’s retreating form into the cafe and the upstairs room. 

 

John sat upright on the sofa, his eyes rimmed with red, tears still rolling down his face. In his shaking hand he held a bottle; there were wine stains round his mouth, turning his top lip red. His hair was a mess, it had come out the neat plait Lafayette had put it in that morning, clumps of it seemed to be matted as if he had been tossing and turning for the last hour. His breathing still looked like it caused him pain, as though he’d been punched in the chest. His eyes were wide and panicked, his shoulders tense and his back ramrod straight. He looked as though he was about to stand to attention when Lafayette entered the room, he didn't though, he just whipped his head towards the door and took one look at their faces before he spoke. 

 

“Who’s dead?” He said, “whenever someone dies, you have that facial expression, who’s dead?” 

 

“Jehan,” Lafayette whispered, “he was caught, we didn't notice in time. They executed him.”

 

“They… executed him?” John swallowed as the other four piled on to the rickety old sofa, it was a tight fit but they managed. 

 

“Shot him in the middle of the street,” Alexander said, still slightly shell shocked. 

 

“We aren’t getting out of here, are we?” John sighed into the crook of R’s neck.

 

“I don’t think so,” R mumbled back, squeezing John tight. 

 

Enjolras let out a ragged sob, as though it had been cleaved from his chest by some unknown force. Never in their nearly fourteen years of knowing each other, had Alex heard such an outpouring of emotion come from him. Never had he heard such utter hopelessness be torn from his lover, Enjolras was shaking, his shoulders heaving up and down as tears poured from his eyes and down his face. Lafayette pulled Enjolras further on to his lap, curling around him and holding him in his arms, as tight as possible. Alexander moved so his legs were intwined with Enjolras’s, so his back was leaning against R’s shoulder. 

 

“I have condemned us all, not just the four of us, but every man out there,” he said, though his voice was choppy and hard to understand. “It is my fault.”

 

“No. Everyone is there because they want to be. We gave them a chance to leave, they did not. They have stayed because they want to. You’ve not condemned anyone.” John leant back to look Enjolras in the face. “What happened here and what will happen here is not your fault.” He paused before he stood, “come on, the others look to us to lead.” 

 

“I can see why you were such an excellent soldier,” Enjolras said, smiling weakly even as the tears kept falling, “alright. To the death then?”

 

“Let’s give them a screwing they’ll never forget,” Grantaire smiled wryly, taking John’s offered hand and heaving himself to his feet, leaving Alex to flop back on the sofa.

 

“To the death,” Alexander said, untangling himself from Enjolras and standing.

 

 

***

 

Volleys of bullets rained down upon them with hellish finality. The National Guard held them in the palm of its hand, squeezing the life out of them slowly but surely. They had been attacked for over an hour now; the sun had risen in the sky and it hung above them, yellow and hot. The heat turned the pavements back to its dry, dusty state, though now it was sticky and red with blood that dripped in a lazy river over the cobbles. Bahorel stood at the top of the barricade as wave upon wave of guardsmen tried to climb it, Lafayette stood with him, bayonetting anyone that got past the man. They worked in tandem, learning each other’s fighting strategies, seeing the other fight of man after man, it seemed that they may live another day. It happened, though, when Laf’s back was turned, he had looked around to talk to Enjolras. He heard a cry and whipped around to see guardsman with a bayonet in Bahorel’s stomach. He could no more than watch as Bahorel was lifted up by the force of the blow then thrown down the barricade, where he landed at Combeferre’s feet. The world seemed to slow, Lafayette could see the guardsman’s bloody bayonet coming to spear him, he grabbed the muzzle of the man’s gun and yanked it forward, hoping that the gun was not loaded. He pulled the man toward him, yanking the muzzle behind him, and watched as the guard was impaled on his bayonet. In the end, though, it was all for naught. Bahorel gasped and writhed on the cobbled pavement; Laf jumped down to hold him, along side Combeferre, who tried desperately to stop the blood from pouring out his stomach, in great spurts. 

 

“I’m sorry, I wasn’t there; I’d turned away,” Laf looked at Bahorel, catching his eye, but the man shook his head. 

 

“It’s alright,” he said though the words were unintelligible, as he reached up and grasped Lafayette’s cravat “‘m going to a better place.” 

 

“Bahorel, you stop this right now,” Combeferre said firmly, pressing his ruined waistcoat to Bahorel’s stomach, “you are going to pull through this, stop being daft.”

 

“Ah, of course, Monsieur, I’ll do my best,” Bahorel laughed a little, but his words were coming in fainter and fainter, his breaths becoming more and more shallow as he died with a smile on his face. 

 

“Shit.” Combeferre moaned, resting his head on Bahorel’s still chest, and beating his hand against the cobbles, as he sobbed little before standing, “I’ll get someone else to help us move him.”

 

Lafayette sat, holding a deadman’s hand, feeling the skin rapidly turn cold. Gun shots still echoed through the street, even though they were slightly muffled by the barricade. He’d seen death before; he couldn't properly number the men who he’d seen die during the war, he’d felt it himself, and yet here he was crying over the people who he’d seen die today. He looked up as a hand ran through his hair, gently threading his curls through fingers. 

 

“Come on, love. We should move him away from here,” Grantaire stood above him, he held out his hand and pulled Laf to his feet, curling an arm around his waist to steady him. 

 

They picked up Bahorel and moved him away from the barricade, taking him in to the relative quiet of the cafe; they laid him down next to Éponine, covering him with a piece of muslin cloth. Combeferre was drawn away quickly after they put Bahorel down, but Grantaire and Lafayette stood looking down at their friend in a silent vigil. They heard a chorus of panicked voices outside, so they left the calm of the cafe and walked back out in to the chaos of the Rue de Villette. 

 

“We need more ammunition, we won't survive another attack,” Alexander said, rummaging through their limited supplies. 

 

“I’ll go over the barricade, there’s lots of powder sitting unused, I could-“

 

“Marius, no,” Enjolras said shaking his head, “we’ll have to think of some other way to get the powder, there’s no way any of us could go out there without being shot down immediately.”

 

None of them noticed when Gavroche had sneaked back to the cafe, and no one noticed when Gavroche slipped in to the no man’s land the other side of the barricade. He crept stealthily through the street, that was lined with the bodies of guardsmen who had fallen to the Les Amis’s bullets. His breath seemed to ring louder than it ever had through the still and quiet air, as he stole the powder from a dead man. His shoes slipped on the cobbles as he passed men who had no powder bags, his eyes ran over the blue coats and red tassels of their uniforms. He’d rarely seen finer cloth, and he thought about how a nice jacket like that could keep John warm and last for years. He was bending down to take the jacket when he heard a horse shout from the barricade. 

 

“Gavroche, Gav please, come back. Come to me,” John was peeking his head over the top of an upturned table. “Come back, you’ve got enough now.”

 

“No, no I don't there’s still-“

 

A shot rang out, but the bullet didn't hit Gavroche, it only startled him. The lead slammed in to the seat of a chair, splintering the wood creating a hole that led straight through to the other side of the barricade. Gavroche looked up at John and smiled, before he moved to pick up the coat and throw it to his brother. Another shot rang out from the side of the Guard, this time it was close enough for Gavroche to hear it whistle past his ear. 

 

“Gav, _please,_ ” John pleaded with him, holding out his hand, letting more of his body hang over the side of the barricade. 

 

Gavroche shook his head, and tuned out his brother as he went to work throwing the powder bags over the side of the barricade, to the Les Amis. He was strong enough so the bags reached their destination, he could hear them land on the cobbles. Another shot pierced through the quiet of no man’s land, this time though, the Guard didn't miss. Gavroche didn't feel anything till he hit the ground. The world went black and white and then he was pitching forward, towards the corpse of a Guardsman. Then his shoulder was on fire. 

 

“No!” He heard his brother shouting; he heard the clatter as bits fell off the barricade as he was pulled back from it. 

 

Gavroche stood, feeling the blood soak through the sleeve of his jacket, he stumbled a bit before throwing another powder bag over the barricade. Another shot. 

 

John keened, a guttural, animalistic cry of grief as he saw his little brother fall down dead. When Gavroche had stood after the first shot had hit its mark, John had still had hope, maybe he could get Gav back; maybe Gavroche would be strong enough to make. Now though, now there was no hope; now John had lost two of his siblings in less than a day. He fell to his knees, beating his fists against the road, feeling as he was wrapped up in four sets of arms. Feeling warmth soaking in to him, he could feel love and hope pour in to him.

 

***

 

The second attack came quickly, without warning, without mercy. They stood ready behind the strongest bits of the barricade as they heard men marching towards them; they heard the rolling drum of canon wheels as they clattered against the pits in the road. Enjolras reached for Alexander’s hand, gripping on so hard his fingers turned white. Alexander held John close to him, his arm around his waist, John had one hand on the top of Lafayette’s head and Lafayette held R’s hand so they were a chain, unbroken and unbending. 

 

The sky above them was clear, the sun hanging in the sky, usually the harbinger of happiness and contentment, now though it hailed their inevitable deaths. Alexander knew what it was to die, he was unafraid, the only emotion he felt was anger. A seething rage had broiled under his skin for so long, now he was going to set it free. 

 

“Mon Petit Lion, I know that face,” Lafayette chuckled. 

 

“You at the barricade listen to this. The people of Paris sleep in their beds, you have no chance. No chance at all. Why throw your lives away?” A voice shouted over their heads, echoing through the empty street, Paris lay silent as a grave, unaware and perhaps uncaring about what was happening in one of its streets. 

 

“I am not going to die a coward.” Enjolras stated, standing and looking at his friends, “I am going to make them pay for every man.”

 

“Let’s make them bleed while we can,” Alexander grinned looking up at him, grasping on to his hand to heave himself to his feet. 

 

“Others will rise to take our place, until the Earth is free,” Courfeyrac nodded, gripping his gun in trembling fingers as he stood too. 

 

The sun started to set as red bled in to the sky, turning the blue into crimson. The cobbles and street around the barricade mirrored the sky like a reflection in a lake. Crimson bled into the grey stone. Joly fell first, making his way to Bossuet, who had been wounded; Bossuet died holding Joly’s cool hand. Feuilly cried out when he saw his friends fall, he shot the man that did it, but did not see one of the guards behind him. He fell to his knees, and off the barricade, lying on the street, looking up at the setting sun and thinking of his friends. Courfeyrac landed beside him, holding his hand and yelling in his ear, telling him that he had to hold on; that help was on its way and that he would be okay. Feuilly, looked up at his friend, unable to even raise a hand to cup his cheek as he gasped and the world went black. 

 

“No, no, no,” Courfeyrac’s hands scrabbled uselessly against Feuilly’s jacket, “no. Not you as well, my friend, not you, and Joly, and Bossuet.” 

 

“Courf,” Combeferre, stood behind him, dragging him back into the cafe. 

 

“Hack away the stairs!” Enjolras called, he and the other four remaining were already climbing the stairs. 

 

They started up the rickety old staircase, the memories of their time in the Musain chasing them further up. They could almost feel the guards breath on them, as the men closed in, stabbing at them with bayonets. Courf felt a stab of pain in his stomach, he felt hot, wet blood flow freely from the gash, his world tipped alarmingly and then he was falling down the stairs and onto the flagstone floor of the cafe. He gasped for breath, he could hear Combeferre yelling something, though he could not make it it out. 

 

“Courf! No! Courf, keep breathing for me, keep breathing for me. Don’t go without me.” 

 

Alexander heard Courf shout goodbye to Combeferre, but as soon as the gasping breaths stopped, Combeferre fell dead before them. Then it was just the five of them, pistols held out, aiming at the guardsmen who marched up the stairs. 

 

“I am not afraid.” Grantaire said, looking at each of them in turn, “I am not afraid because I know we’ll meet again.” 

 

“We will, I feel it,” Lafayette nodded, as the guards poured up the stairs. 

 

“I love you all,” John said, “I love you all so much.”

 

“This is not goodbye, so much as a see you later,” Alexander breathed, looking up at Enjolras, who was breathing heavily listening to the footsteps of the guards. 

 

“See you later, then,” he whispered so as only the four of them could hear it, as the first guard rounded the corner. 

 

They dropped their pistols almost in sync, letting them fall to the wood floor with a dull clunk. All five of them as if by telepathy reached for each other’s hands, gripping tightly as the men in front of them lined up. John looked at Alex, and his eyes were the last thing Alexander saw as the world went black for a second time.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you didn't read this chapter (that's fine I feel that) then please read the next one! The next one is the other ending, the happy, not so graphic one.


	11. His life was a wager and mine's a joke.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A happier alternate ending because the angst was just too much for me. Trigger warnings for blood and death mentions!!

Enjolras turned away from the body, he turned his back on the rest of the amis and stumbled away from the scene of sadness and horror. He walked into one of the side alleys that lined the street, washing was strung across the windows and the shutters lining the walls were shut; the windows were dark. He realised somewhere deep in his heart, he knew that no one was going to help them; that the people of Paris would not rise to help them. The cobbles were already stained with blood, the first attack had been brutal and he couldn't bare the thought of seeing anyone else dead. His stomach sank, how quickly his thoughts of glorious revolution had turned to horror and terror. He slammed his head into the brickwork, and punched the wall, feeling the sharp sting of pain in his knuckles and forehead. He looked down at his hand and saw blood welling up in small cuts along his knuckles. 

 

“What did the wall ever do to you?” Courfeyrac asked, walking up beside him. 

 

“ _Nothing,”_ Enjolras snarled, turning away from Courf, “the wall’s done nothing. Just like Paris, _nothing,_ ” 

 

“Ah, there’s still time-“ Courf said reaching out to touch Enjolras’s shoulder.

 

“Time for what?” Enjolras shouted, “to call it off? Surrender?” 

 

“Enj, listen, there’s ways we can all get out of here. We can leave, and they’d never know.”

 

“How?” Enjolras was incredulous, “how do you know?” 

 

“Me and Ferre, we made sure there were ways out.” Courfeyrac shrugged and waved his hand, “we knew things might go wrong, so we made sure that we could all get out.” 

 

“Where?” Enjolras glanced around, trying to spot what Courf was talking about, “how? How do we get everyone out?”

 

“Sewers,” Courf shrugged as Enjy pulled face; his nose scrunched up and he took a step backwards.

 

“The sewers?” Enjolras’s nose was still scrunched and his voice had taken on a high-pitched disgusted quality. 

 

“Yeah, there’s a pipe that’s big enough to squeeze down; the sun’s going down we should move when it gets dark. We could get out of this, Enjy, all of us.” Courfeyrac looked at Enjolras, ducking down to catch his eyes. 

 

“How can you be so sure?”

 

“Ferre think we can; he worked it out-“

 

“What aren't you telling me, Gabriel?” Enjolras said, looking right in to Courfeyrac’s eyes as though he could see in them the thing Courfeyrac was hiding from him. 

 

“Nothing, Julien, I’m not hiding anything,” Courfeyrac said, shifting from foot to foot as he fiddled with his hands.

 

“Hmm,” Enjolras tilted Courf’s face up to look at him properly, “somehow Gabriel, I don’t believe you. I do trust you though. I’ll try it. If it saves my boys, I’ll try it.” 

 

Courf let out a brilliant smile, and gestured to the barricade, “the pipe is just on the other side of the barricade. Ferre measured it last week, after we decided here was the right place for the barricade.” 

 

“Right, so we tell the others, and then what?”

 

“Then when its dark, we leave and the Guard have no idea where we’ve gone, we’ll have vanished in to the night.”

 

“Like smoke,” Enjolras said, turning from where he was staring at the barricade to look at Courf.

 

“Like smoke,” Courfeyrac nodded, and they went out into blood stained street. 

 

***

 

The moon covered the barricade in silver light, illuminating the friends as they crept around, extinguishing lamps and candles. They were scrambling to leave, Courfeyrac and Combeferre showing the rest of the friends into the sewer tunnels as the National Guard slept. There was a loud crash, the lid of the sewer had come down as Jehan had knocked into it. The Guards woke up with loud shouts and choruses of sleepy surprise. Combeferre and Courfeyrac shared a panicked look, Combeferre grabbed Courf’s arm, and gestured to where Enjolras was arguing with Grantaire. Alexander, Lafayette, and John had been the first three to go; they had to make sure that all the Amis got to a safe place.

 

“Both of you, get over here right now! Get into this tunnel or so help me,” Courf said, running over to them and taking a hold of Grantaire’s necktie, dragging him to the entrance of the tunnel.

 

“Right! Right!” Enjolras said, “You’ll both be right behind us?” Enjolras looked up at Courf, as the Guards were starting to clamber over the huge pile of chairs and tables. The moonlight caught on his blond hair and blue eyes, making him look ethereal. 

 

“Of course we will,” Courf smiled, and stroked a finger down Enjolras’s cheek, “you’re the best friend I’ve ever had. Now go.” 

 

Combeferre looked into Courf’s eyes, “you aren’t planning on joining us are you?”

 

“I’ll try,” Courf said, taking Combeferre’s face in his hands, stroking a thumb over his cheekbone and kissing him lightly on the lips. Ferre pulled away and shook his head, as he bent down and started to pull himself into the tunnel.

 

“Come back to me,” Combeferre pleaded, his voice cracking as he bent once more to catch Courfeyrac’s lips, tracing his fingers lightly over the other’s jaw. 

 

“I will, I’ll try,” Courfeyrac nodded, brushing his lips over Combeferre’s once more before, he bent down until he could no longer see Combeferre’s outline through the gloom of the tunnel.

 

Courf looked up at the towering pile of wood, and then at the one remaining lamp, he took in the unused gun powder and a plan came to mind. The Guard was only just nearing the top; he still had time. His hands shook as he grasped the powder bags, and started to tip the powder out and along the flat surfaces of the barricade. He looked up at the sky and took a deep breath, before grabbing the lamp. He prayed to whomever was out there that he had laid enough powder down to give him sometime to get away. The boards of the barricade creaked under his feet as he climbed up the precious wood, he needed to check if the guards were still sleeping the night away. True enough there was only one sentry posted, and he looked like he was leaning on his gun, sleeping. The only sounds emanating from the camp were snores, and huffs of breath that echoed through the empty street. He took a deep breath and followed the line of gunpowder back into the Musain. His shaking hands grasped one of the last remaining candles and he held it over the fuse, he said another hurried prayer and lit the powder.

 

He had to act fast, the crackling of the powder a permanent all pervasive reminder of what would happen to him if he didn't make it out of danger fast enough. The pipe was close, he could see the entrance, he lowered himself into it. The smell was what hit him first, it slammed into his face like a brick wall, crawling up through his nostrils and burning down his throat. He coughed and continued to make his way, he was flat on his stomach, dragging himself through the dirt and grime; his hair stuck to his face where he had been sweating. He felt a stab of pain go through his left hand but he continued to shuffle; the walls of the tunnel pressed in on all side, closing in on him and keeping him in darkness. 

 

Courfeyrac was on his hands and knees shuffling away from the barricade as fast as he could go. The pipes had widened enough for him to get off his stomach, he could feel the ache in his ribs where he had been putting all his weight on them. His hand was painful but he didn't want to stop and waste time looking at it when there was a bomb lying above his head. The smell and feel of the sewer would have been enough motivation to make him move, even if the barricade hadn't been rigged with enough explosives to blow up a small bridge. Moss and slime dripped down the walls, and the only way to describe the smell was that of death. He saw movement in one of the shadows and froze, but it turned out just to be a rat, the rodent hopped across his path; Courfeyrac let out a small moan. 

 

He scurried through the pipes and only stopped when he came to a fork, he deliberated over the way to go, before noticed a small rosette floating in the water. He picked it up, feeling the material in his hands for a moment before taking the left hand fork. His friends had left him a trail, something that would reunite all of them. His mind raced had he hadmost of the ten minutes he'd given himself to get away? He wracked his brain trying to remember, but mathematics had never been his strength, Combeferre had always been the best at maths. He'd trailed the powder far enough to give him time to get away, he thought, remembering the curves and curls he’d put in the trail, it wouldn't go off for a little while yet.

 

He was waiting for the boom; so when it finally ricocheted through the brick halls he wasn't shocked, yet his breathing picked up and his heart rate soared. He kept himself still, hunching over and tried to get the sound out of his ears. The noise bounced and flew through the pipes and echoed on the bricks with enough force to make him stumble. At least he was no longer crouching, the ceilings here were high enough for him to stand, high brick archways creating an almost formal like effect. Another fork, he saw Enjolras's red scarf tied to a smaller pipe, this time on the right hand path. He took it, not wanting to leave the trail for anyone else to follow, he let the material flow through his fingers, it was dirty and stained from the sewer but it was still Enjolras’s scarf. It was the only thing, that his friend had brought with him when he left home, the only thing Enjolras had of his old life. He could feel powder and brick falling on his face and into his hair; he tried not to focus on the cracks that had spread across the surface of the brick. He really tried not to notice the cracking sounds that had followed the explosion. He just focussed on getting the hell out of the sewers; he hoped his friends had chosen a short path.

 

The water came up to just past his thighs and slowed his progress significantly, though this fork seemed to have no other tunnels branching off it. His trousers were soaked, and despite it being summer, the temperature was freezing cold. His hand was throbbing and there was still no light with which to see it, he just hoped that both Joly and Combeferre has made it to wherever he was going. He could feel hot wet liquid dripping down his fingers insistently, he didn't want to look, he wanted to look when it was light, when he could see it properly. He took off the neck tie he still had on and wrapped it around the palm of his hand, hoping that that would stop the blood. 

 

***

 

“Where the hell is he?” Combeferre said, pacing around the curb, “he should have been here by now, we all heard that boom right?” 

 

“Yes, Ferre, we heard it. He’ll be here, he’ll make it,” Enjolras squeezed Combeferre’s shoulder, and patted it lightly. He moved to where Alexander was cradling John against his chest, rocking back and forth. “How is he?”

 

“He’ll live,” Alex smiled grimly, looking up at Enjolras, who took a seat next to him on the curb. 

 

Enjolras ran his hands through John’s hair, braiding the strands together, taking them and started to try and get some of the dirt out. John did not move, he did not speak, he made no acknowledgement of Enjolras or Alex. Enjolras looked to the side and saw Lafayette and Grantaire kissing, their hands entwined; Lafayette’s free hand was tangled in Grantaire’s hair. They were illuminated by the street lamps, the small flames spreading orange halos of light, some of the Amis stood in them, their faces cast with dark shadows; some of them chose to stand in the darkness. Lafayette’s angular face was cast half in shadow, the other half was hidden by Grantaire as they kissed, Enjolras was no painter, he didn't really understand art or the pull people found in it; though in that moment, he itched to preserve the beauty he was privy to, forever. He turned back to Alexander, who was looking at him over the top of John’s head, Alex smiled as small sad smile. 

 

“We’ll try again,” he said, his voice small and quiet, “we’ll keep on trying till either we die or the world is free.”

 

“I know,” Enjolras nodded, feeling the weight of the world sink down upon his shoulders, “I know we will.”

 

“I love you all so much,” Alexander’s voice cracked slightly, as he looked Enjolras right in his eyes; he reached out a hand and tucked a strand of hair behind Enjolras’s ear, “you are everything to me. I could not bare to see you take the world on top of your shoulders, even Atlas in his isolation, needs a helpful hand.”

 

“Then I suppose, I will accept your hand,” Enjolras smiled, “or perhaps, in this moment your lips will do just as fine.”

 

Alexander shook his head but leant forward and brushed his lips over Enjolras’s lightly, not letting go of John but cradling him closer. Enjolras, in that moment needed the touch and feel of another human, he need Alex’s warm lips against his. He held one of John’s hands and pressed it against the other’s heart, feeling the steady thump of it. He felt the warmth against his fingers, the soft material of John’s shirt and the heat that soaked through it. 

 

“Gabriel!” The peace that had settled over the group was shattered as Courfeyrac appeared from the pipe, his head popping up above the rim.

 

“Théodore! Ferre!” Courfeyrac said, launching himself out of the pipe and into Ferre’s arms. “I thought I would surely never see you again.” Courfeyrac tangled his hands in the hair at the back of Combeferre’s neck. 

 

“You made it. You came for me,” Combeferre sobbed into Courfeyrac’s shirt, in a rare public display of emotion. 

 

“I said I would,” Courfeyrac stroked his hand through Combeferre’s hair, “I’ll always come back to you.”

 

The rest of the Amis were getting restless, Lafayette and Grantaire had broken apart when Courfeyrac had come through the pipe. They now moved to stand around Courfeyrac and Combeferre, who stepped back, his hands on Courfeyrac’s waist, he looked him up and down and decided that his lover was fine. 

 

“We can move- wait, what’s wrong with your hand?” Combeferre said noticing the cravat wrapped around Courfeyrac’s hand, “let me see, Gabriel.” 

 

Courfeyrac held out the hand, and sucked in a breath when he finally saw it, there was a large piece of what seemed to pipe embedded in to his palm; blood was leaking out of it steadily, dripping on to the cobbles. He felt suddenly nauseous and the world seemed to pitch forward. He felt arms around his waist holding him steady. 

 

“Oh god,” that was Joly, who had stepped out of the small crowd, he’d gripped Courf’s palm and turned it into the small halo of lamplight. “We need to get him back to my apartment, it’s closer and I have all my equipment there.” 

 

“Lead the way then, friend,” Combeferre said, picking Courfeyrac up and carrying him bridal style. 

 

“Théo you do not need to carry me,” Courfeyrac mumbled, but he buried his neck into Ferre’s neck, kissing the pulse point lightly. 

 

“You were about to faint Gabriel, of course I need to carry you,” Ferre muttered leaning forward and pressing a kiss into Courfeyrac’s hair. 

 

“I hate to spoil a moment, but we really do need to hurry, we’ll need to look more closely at that hand.” Joly said fluttering around the Amis, checking their wounds and scratches, “Bossuet, could you run ahead, warn Chetta?”

 

“Yes, love,” Bossuet kissed Joly once on the lips and ran off down the road.

 

“The Guard will be looking for us, we’ll need to lie low, maybe get out of the city,” Enjolras looked around him, his eyes darting about in the night, “I just hope we’re far enough away from the barricade to be safe.”

 

“I think we are,” Lafayette nodded, moving on to lead the group, walking beside Joly, but not before he kissed Enjolras on the top of the head. 

 

“You did a fine job, Apollo,” Grantaire moved to walk next to them, “I thought for sure I would die on that barricade.”

 

Enjolras didn't say anything, he only took Grantaire’s hand in his, “do you permit it?” He said, flicking his eyes to their joined hands. 

 

“Of course, my Apollo, of course I do.” Grantaire smiled, and peered around at Alexander and John, “and you, how is he?” R nodded over at John, looking at him with worried eyes.

 

“He’s okay, he’s going to be okay,” Alex gripped John’s hand in his, tightly, holding on till his knuckles turned white, John kept his eyes on the pavement, his movements were robotic. 

 

Joly’s apartment was only just large enough to fit all of them in, they sat in silence, faces blank. No one talked, no one laughed or smiled or joked. John, Alex, Grantaire, Enjolras, and Lafayette, sat on a sofa; they were so tangled together so that no one else could see where one ended and the others began. They basked in the feeling of their lovers heat and warmth and life. The rest of the Amis, revelled in the life of the others, they held each other and simply lived. Courfeyrac’s hand was patched up and it seemed to move fine, the pipe was smaller than it had seemed and the wound would leave no scar. He and Combeferre had taken up residence on a beaten up armchair, they were sat with Courfeyrac cuddled against Combeferre’s chest so that he could hear the other’s heart. The only sounds was their breathing, until Joly moved to the kitchen and pulled out a bottle of brandy and glasses enough for all of them.

 

“Excellent,” Grantaire smiled and stood to help Joly with the glasses. “A good year too.”

 

“What did you expect, Ranae,” Joly shook his head, handing Grantaire a couple of glasses, “here hand them out will you?”

 

They sat, looking out a Paris as the sun rose above the tops of the buildings, and in their hearts they hoped that one day it would rise on a Paris that would be free. Alexander stood and moved the window, staring out at the river and the water that was now stained red and orange. He could see the smoke from the barricade that still billowed into the sky, twisting and turning, a black stain in a clear sky. He swilled his brandy and drank it all in one, letting the alcohol burn down his throat, he let the false warmth sink into his stomach. He felt a hand on his waist. 

 

“So it didn’t work this time,” Lafayette smiled ruefully, “there had to be a time when our thirst for war and freedom would backfire.”

 

“There is always a next time,” Alexander nodded, “perhaps one day the people of paris will rise up. Maybe we will be there to see it.”

“I vow that I will be,” Enjolras joined them, “I will be there to see my country and my city free.” 

 

“I will be there too, if only to see your face,” Grantaire grinned, and leant his head against Enjolras’s shoulder. 

 

“You guys aren’t going to get rid of me that easily,” John joined them, his eyes red and his hair a mess, though a braid tumbled down his back, he linked his hands with Alex and Lafayette, “I’m always going to be there.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So... this is done... yup... tell me how you liked it!!! Kudos and comments make my day!! Also there will be lil deleted scenes every now and then popping up!!!!! So look out for them!!

**Author's Note:**

> This is like the first proper AU I have ever written, so be kind. Also I am only on page 120 of Les Mis, so I'm kinda working with just the musical here to help at first at least. Kudos/ comments give me life and keep me writing :D Thanks for reading I hope you enjoyed it so far. 
> 
> Also check out halpdevon.tumblr.com/tagged/les mis for some amazing art!!
> 
> And don't forget to yell at me on tumblr, where I'll be posting deleted scenes and such even after this story is done: obi-wan-kxnxbi.tumblr.com


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